The Problem of Siamese Amnesia
by E Phoenix
Summary: Watson awakens in a deadly situation without being able to recall how he got there. Will Holmes somehow find him and save the day? Or will Watson be on his own? 1st fanfic, please r&r-advice welcome! Rated T. Warnings at chapter beginning if violent.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: In attempting to make the characters in this story come to life with their particular manners of speech I have researched their various backgrounds and described in some detail what they would sound like. I describe this in my book and write the character's speech in their own particular accent or dialect. I also do this because, unlike politically correct now, Victorian authors would write out what the character's sounded like precisely. I do this a bit in this story, since after all it is Watson's view point. I certainly do not mean this to be offensive; I merely strive for realism. Let me know if it comes across as coarse. With appreciation, E

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**The Problem of Siamese Amnesia**

_I confess that it would be so easy to give in to the comfort of the silent, blind darkness, but I think of Holmes and remember my promise, so I concentrate hard and attempt to conjure up everything that has recently transpired so that I shall stay awake and by extension, hopefully, stay alive…_

At the start of it all—at least the start that I could immediately remember—my first conscious thought had been that Holmes was practicing his jabs on his punching ball. Although not a supporter of strenuous, physical exercise for its own sake, Holmes would often use the ball if he thought the case at hand could present the opportunity for fisticuffs. Thus more than once, I have awoken in the morning to hear the recurring barrage of his attacks on it and so for the first second my world did not seem out of kilter. In fact, I confess that I momentarily was filled with excitement that a case he deemed worthy of such preparations had come into our hands. I would shortly have a reason to rue my anticipation of possible excitement.

_Thump, whack, thump_—the repetitive sounds continued when suddenly pain dominated my existence so intensely that I could scarcely tell where or why I was hurting.

I opened my eyes and found that I was not, in fact, in my bedroom on Baker Street, and that I myself was being used as punching ball. "Whaa…?" a half intelligible mumble came out of my mouth.

My vision was blurred and my head felt stuffed to the brim with surgical gauze. Even more bewildering was the fact that I had no knowledge of where I was or what I had done to deserve such treatment.

"Ah, there," a considerably deep voice grated. "Looks like 'e's awake."

At that inconsiderate pronouncement, I was dropped hard onto the floor below me, which I noticed was covered in fish guts. Had I not already been faint from my injuries, I trust that I would have become ill merely at the rank odor of decay in the place and the slippery, rotten guts that I landed in. Incapacitated as I was with blurry vision and an aching body, I attempted to get a good look around.

The man who had accosted me was extremely stout and at least my double in width if not more. He had shaggy brown hair and his back was turned on me as he faced the corner of the room. If I had thought I could get up, I would have attacked him, but considering the fact that I scarcely knew my own name and was experiencing several symptoms of being concussed, I reconsidered.

As for the place itself, I was in a small, wooden shack. Judging from the fish I inferred that I was by a wharf, a very small fit of deduction on my part since I imagined that Holmes, in my place, would have inevitably been able to tell the exact location of the dock by the type of fish guts or the particular kind of sand that lay in large piles between the wooden floorboards. I gave a moan as I rolled over, all that I have so far related having occurred in a matter of moments. Thus I was greatly surprised when I heard an angry, feminine gasp of indignation.

"Not a sound," the man roared at the woman, who was apparently in the corner and out of my view.

There was the sound of a slap and I could not contain my anger. "Are you so," my injured brain struggled for an insult, "…deplorable that you must prey on people weaker than yourself?"

In retrospect, I seemed quite wretched myself considering my words slurred together causing me to sound like, 'Are you sho…deplorrrable thath you mush prey on pee-pul wea-ker than yourshelf?' Obviously I had not been conscious long enough to gain control of my injured mental faculties.

The man whirled in my direction and I saw his face for the first time. Considering that my vision was still rather foggy it took me a moment to process his features. He reminded me strongly of a bull dog, so heavy were his jowls, and his face was lined and wrinkled although he did not appear to be greatly aged. His eyes had sagging bags below them and such was his resemblance to that breed of canine that I half expected to see teeth protruding from his lips. "You shut your mouth, too!"

He moved toward me menacingly but a voice outside called out, "Amos," and the man, apparently named 'Amos,' stopped his advance.

"Both of you stay put an' don't try anything. I'll be right outside."

"_Sabai dee rue_?" a soft female voice asked in a foreign language that sounded Oriental in nature. I didn't know what she said, but her voice was concerned, and I admit that her gentle tone gave me some comfort.

"Stop that gibb'rish," ordered our captor—for I naturally assumed she was also in my predicament—as he stomped outside, closing the door.

I turned toward the direction she had spoken in and saw the woman whom I thought confusedly at the time resembled a porcelain china doll that had taken a tumble off of a shelf. I suppose I thought this because the young lady standing in the corner of the shed was delicate looking, had skin that was fairly pale, most likely paler than her natural skin tone, and she had almond shaped eyes, but her bottom lip was swollen and bloody and she had the fresh red mark of the slap across her cheek. I attempted to sit up and a wave of nausea that I knew was a symptom of my head injury struck me and I had to close my eyes. I laid still and took a few deep breaths, willing myself to recover.

When I opened my eyes again, I was no longer seeing double and the fog had mostly lifted, so I commenced to study my fellow captive. The young lady was very beautiful, but sorrowful; her eyes, though looking at me with kindness, had some unfathomable sadness and seriousness about them. At once she seemed so very young and innocent, and yet the look she gave in the direction of the man who had retreated outside was one of knowing scorn. She wore what had been a modest, hand stitched blue dress designed in the latest style, but the well crafted garment had a tear that made her left sleeve hang from her shoulder. Her black hair was coiled up into a neat bun that was as dark and shiny as obsidian. As to her age, I couldn't really deduce it exactly since her skin was smooth of wrinkles but she had a distinctively womanly, and not childish, air about her. If I had to guess, though of course Holmes would have reproached me for even considering doing so, I would have said she was probably around twenty.

Walking forward and holding her skirt up practically so it didn't drag in the intestines on the floor, she moved through the fish guts with all the grace of a duchess or a dancer and knelt down next to me. Somehow I recognized the woman—I had seen her before, I knew that much—but I could recollect nothing else about her and merely attempting to remember made my head ache all the more. Instead, I inferred she was caught up in the same plight that had brought us to the horrid shack. Some small part of my brain whispered to me that our acquaintance had to do with my medical profession, but the girl—though seeming pale and slightly weak—didn't seem seriously ill. What had happened?

I couldn't make my injured mind work but I did think of Holmes then, and I wondered if he was caught up in whatever this was. If so, I hoped he was faring much better than I. Thinking about my roommate made me realized it had to be Tuesday—my last clear memory was of Holmes' intense, lean face bent over his test tubes as I bade him good evening on Monday and as it was the afternoon, it had to be Tuesday, unless I had lost more time than I realized.

The young woman had been scrutinizing me whilst I was thinking and she pulled out a white cotton handkerchief that had been tucked in the sash of her dress and carefully pressed it to my forehead. I noticed, as I was wont to do because of my profession, that her hand trembled slightly as she did so, although she did not seem particularly in terror. Exhaustion or hunger, I mused.

"_Maw? Sabai dee rue_?" she asked again.

"I beg your pardon, miss…" I paused to temper my pounding head and to consider my words. "But I am afraid I do not understand."

She looked at me strangely and then her face suddenly was alight with understanding. "I forget to say English at times." Her voice was a very soft, hesitant one, and it confirmed that she was from the Orient, though I did not recognize the accent enough to be able to tell exactly where. "I asked, 'Doctor? How are you?'"

I attempted to rise from my prone position to better answer her and to converse more politely—lying in fish guts while bleeding is not a proper position in which to hold a conversation—when she interrupted me and placed her slim hands on my chest.

"No, please, do no get hurt further." When she spoke she inevitably separated her words and laid the stress on the last syllable—doc-_tor_, fur-_ther_—and often left the end letter of a word off completely.

"Thank you…for your concern," I said. "But I am not so badly injured." I noted that I still maintained a slight slur and I believe she noticed it as well. _Yes_, I thought, _assuredly concussed_. "And yourself?" I indicated her mouth and cheek, also instinctively noticing that her left wrist had to be injured, as she moved it stiffly, used it rarely, and kept it close to her body. Obtuse as I am about, as Holmes would say, seeing without observing, I still have an acceptable eye for detecting people's injuries.

"It is nothing." Her speech, although accented and of course somewhat affected by her split lip, was definite—the words of a young woman who had fared much worse.

"If you would be gracious enough to help me to a seated position," I began. "I could examine you—" I halted as she shook her head in a distinct no.

"I am named Samira Sakda." She looked at me questioningly, confirming my suspicion that although she had called me 'doctor,' we were not really acquainted.

"I'm Dr. John Watson." She put her slim hand over mind and patted it lightly, as though to offer comfort. "It's unfortunate we have to meet in these…circumstances. Speaking of which, Miss Sakda, do you know what—"

"I said quiet!" Amos yelled through the door.

"Ask later," Samira whispered. "I shall…" She paused and looked as though she was attempting to recall the correct word, "_Tend_," she said with a slight smile at having found the right expression, "to your hurts."

Miss Sakda lightly dabbed her white cotton handkerchief all around my forehead and hairline, biting her lip as she did so. She appeared to be worried that she was hurting me, and so I said, "It is not such a bad injury," though of course I could not know that for certain.

"There is much blood," she replied.

That I couldn't argue with because I felt the warmth sliding down my nose and onto my cheeks. "Head injuries often bleed quite a bit, even the minor ones."

"This is no small hurt._ Di-chan sia jai_," she murmured, touching my forehead gently with her hand. "I am sorry to have caused your pain."

Her face was contrite as she bent over me to examine the wound. What could she be sorry about? Had she anything to do with the annoying circumstances I found myself in? I didn't really think so—she seemed genuinely concerned for me, but evidentially she had played some role in the drama that had unfolded and that I did not remember.

"I am sure you have nothing to apologize for, Miss Sakda. You have been nothing but—"

My speech was interrupted by the door to the shack being thrown open. In the next second, Samira Sakda let out a small gasp as she was dragged upwards by her bun. I loudly protested at the rogue's treatment of her and rose to help, but Amos kicked me in my sore side and I fell back down, striking the floor with my head. Bright lights exploded behind my eyes and I took in a breath in agony.

Such as it was, I noticed the next events in a kind of fog.

"Come on," the brute grabbed hold of her left wrist and her face whitened, her lips pressed tight together, but she didn't make a sound although I could tell she was suffering. "The master wants you brough' first."

"Please to leave doctor alone. He is no part of this." Her voice was still soft, and a bit apprehensive, but she spoke firmly. I was, despite being half conscious, touched by the resolute way in which she argued with the man for my sake.

"He is now."

"No. I am what _he_," the girl's delicate, silvery voice had a strong underlying sneer in it when she said 'he' that I do not think was a fancy of my delirious state, "wants. Leave Doctor Wat-son here."

"No."

"If _he_," she showed the same derision for whoever she spoke about, "wants him left out of it and you take him, you will be in trouble."

"…I migh' ask an' I migh' not." Amos leered at me, showing brownish-yellow teeth. "I'm goin' to fin' out if you should come. If you try to escape, I'll kill 'er." My expression was suitably angered at this statement, but Miss Sakda didn't show any outward sign of alarm. "And you," he looked at her, "You stroll 'long with me an' act like nuffin is wrong."

She nodded, glancing down at me with amber-brown eyes that held a puzzling expression—she seemed anxious for me, but there wasn't any fear in her eyes, not for herself; nor did she appear to have given in to resignation. In truth, her gaze reminded me a little of Holmes, for she seemed to be able to pierce through a man and delve into his secrets just as he could. Also, Miss Samira Sakda appeared to have Holmes' disregard for one's own person. Her lips moved silently and I concentrated with all my might to be able to tell what she was saying. 'Run," she mouthed. 'Run now.'

And then Amos jerked her out the door.

In all practicality, Amos needn't have worried about me running off despite Miss Sakda's advice. I could scarcely sit up, let alone run with my head in the state it was. Moreover, even if I had managed to escape, the blackguard had threatened the lady and I certainly did not wish to put her in any danger. Although this was the case and the beating had left me breathless and my vision and stamina were sorely shaken due to my head injury, I staggered upright.

I almost slipped in the slimy fish remains, but I managed to totter forward and hang on to the frame of the door, which our captor had either left open carelessly or as a dare. I pushed the door open slightly and looked around, hoping to see a sympathetic face, but the shutters of all the nearby buildings were closed and I saw no one.

"Leave him alone," a voice implored. "I tell you he has no part in it." I looked straight ahead toward the sound and saw Amos dragging Miss Sakda toward a cab. I had a notion to try and go over there to rescue her, but a lurch of dizziness overtook me and I ended up sliding down the door, coming to rest just outside of the shack. Deciding I should assess my wounds before I made any attempted heroics, I felt my ribs where I had been punched—they were extremely tender, but I wasn't having difficulty breathing so I concluded they were not broken. My head I wasn't so certain about. I gingerly put my hand to my forehead and pulled my hand away from it stained crimson.

All the blood, for there was certainly enough of it, probably appeared quite gruesome, especially to the lady, but as I had mentioned before, I knew that any injury to the head or scalp often bled profusely. I ran my hands over my head and I sucked in a breath when I hit the injury because it felt like someone had driven an iron railway spike through my eye.

Evidently I had a moderately serious head injury. A deep gauge several inches long was at my hairline, narrowly missing my temple. Beneath the gash was a rather firm lump of swelling. Obviously, I had been hit rather hard, so it was not too difficult to understand the confusion of my brain, although my understanding did nothing to lessen the annoyance of the gap in my memory. I felt somewhat queasy after my exploration of the wound so I closed my eyes and did not notice anything odd until I heard the footsteps.

"Psst." I turned my head to see a young shoeshine boy—he had black polish all over his hands and a brush sticking out of his pocket so that even I was able to construe his profession—sneaking up from behind the building. "Yer Dr. Watson? Truly?"

"Yes." My brain still slow, I tried to think what else I should say.

The boy, who was in need of a good scrubbing, scratched his disheveled dark hair. "Yeah? Well, whose yer frien', then?"

It took me a second to realize the boy had doubts about my identity. "I am a friend of Sherlock Holmes, if that's what you mean."

"Blimey! Mr. Holmes gives me a couple'a pence ever' now an' again fer news I 'ear when shinin'."

At the time I thought it a great coincidence that the lad was there, though it turned out of course that he had been there purposefully. My damaged memory didn't reveal anything of the events that had led me to this place but I had a sudden feeling that Holmes did not know exactly where I was. I needed to get a message to him. Glancing around, I saw that Amos and Miss Sakda had to be inside the wagon and that the driver was getting down off his rig to assist him as the young lady was seemingly being troublesome. _Thank you Miss Sakda_, I thought, _for the distraction_.

"You say that Holmes has employed you in the past?" I asked, closing my eyes wearily.

"Yessir."

"Do you know his residence?"

"Yessir, 221B Baker Street, tha' is, sir."

"Good, good. Please, lad, do you think that you can take this to him?" I reached inside my coat and, somewhat reluctantly, handed him the dented gold pocket watch that had belonged to my father and older brother before me. I knew the boy could possibly take it to some blackguard to sell and not go to speak to Holmes at all, but it was always my habit to think the best of people, and he was rather young, and the watch was the only thing that I could think of that would prove to my friend that the message was indeed from me. He would, after all, want proof of what the lad said and moreover, my brain was so muddled I couldn't think of a better plan. I hated to think that I could put Holmes in danger by informing him of my current situation, but I saw little choice in the matter and could only trust that he would be well. "Tell him…" I gasped as my headache intensified; no doubt from moving around.

"I'd tell 'im whatever yer like, sir, on'y don' yer wan' me to 'elp you git out of 'ere?"

"I can't leave the lady," I replied.

"I though' maybe you'd say tha', bein' a gen'leman."

My head was pounding louder and louder and it was all I could do to listen to the boy. "Please, tell Holmes that the lady and I…" I gasped with the sudden pain at my temple.

"I'll le' 'im know yer in trouble, sir, an' where yer git off to. An' I'll tell 'im all I over'eard, an' about the lady, too."

"You'll follow us, then? So that you can tell Holmes? I'm quite sure he'll compensate you for—"

"I'm not 'elpin' for the money, sir. I t'aint a gent, but me mum taught me right from wrong."

His serious little face was offended and I patted his shoulder to let him know I meant no harm. "You're a stout soldier, lad."

"I'd best be off, then, afore they get back," the boy whispered, tucking my watch away in his shirt and disappearing around the side of the building. I watched the place he had retreated, imagining the boy handing Holmes the watch.

Deuced if I didn't hate to have to ask for Holmes help in this way! It was not merely as a matter of pride that it bothered me, of course, but because it might be painful to my friend. True, Holmes was not what you would call the most feeling of fellows, or at least he didn't seem that way, but I have had a few occasions to see beneath his cold, methodical exterior and I knew he wouldn't take the news of my current situation well. More worriedly, as I mentioned before, my asking for his help when I was in a bad spot like this could end up with him getting harmed.

That was, of course, assuming he wasn't already in trouble—surely not! I could stand being in danger, though the lady's plight bothered me considerably, but I would be entirely bereft if anything had happened to Holmes, particularly if I had something to do with it. As I had no idea of the events that had led up to my predicament, I told myself that it wasn't helpful to imagine all the worst possibilities since I had no idea what the crux of the matter truly was. Truly, I was even more in the dark than was usual.

At a small cry of pain from Miss Sakda from inside the cab, I shoved myself to my feet and took a few determined steps toward her before the bright flashes in my brain exploded. I have no recollection of whether I made it to her or of anything else further because it was at that point the wound in my head and all my other injuries caught up with me and I succumbed to unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Holmes**

I am not, by nature, dramatic. It is true that I enjoy the occasional theatrical flourish when it comes to my cases, but this is done more as a way to alleviate monotony than as a flair for histrionics. Thus, it is difficult for me to discern exactly why I find it so pressing to relieve the past few days over and over in my head like some sort of tragic operetta, but the fact remains that whenever I close my eyes, instead of seeing the usual lists of data, I see everything that has recently occurred.

The door bell was ringing. Normally I wouldn't have noticed, but my attempts to discover a less viscous emollient than the current paste I use to apply my facial disguises had failed and so the continuous clanging of the bell disturbed my pensive reflections.

"Mrs. Hudson," I called, hoping the woman would extract herself from the kitchen, or wherever she was tending to home and hearth, long enough to answer the door. I started to call for her again, but I heard the clatter of footsteps coming up the stairs.

The shoeshine boy who was regularly employed on the corner of Third Street threw open the door. It appeared that whatever courage had propelled him inside failed him upon actually setting eyes on me as he instantly froze. Inwardly I sighed, though I knew my face betrayed no emotion as I set aside my notes on the experiment.

"Mr. 'olmes." The boy, Tom, took a deep breath and clutched at the front of his shirt as though his life depended on maintaining a strong hold on the fabric.

"You have something you wished to show me?" I asked and the boy started, eyes wide.

"An' tell yer," he muttered, continuing to clutch at whatever it was he held. Frankly, I wished that Watson would get home so that _he_ could deal with the anxious child. Certainly Tom wouldn't have been alarmed of Watson.

"Tell me in your own time, Tom," I added in what I believed was a gentler tone. I was moderately curious to learn what sort of news the shoeshine boy was bringing that would make him display so many nervous tics.

"It's Dr. Watson, sir," the boy whispered, shifting his weight from one foot to another. My interest magnified tenfold. Watson? He had never sent me a message through one of the lads before.

At that second I felt what could be described as a premonition, except that I do not give credit to such things. Nonetheless, I felt a rare sense of foreboding and my full attention was on the boy as he glanced at me and then looked away.

"What about Watson?" The question was snapped out quickly and Tom winced. I took a deep breath and reined in my impatience; the boy's lip was already wobbling and if I pushed him too far it seemed as though he would lapse into an emotional outburst.

After a moment of hesitation, Tom reached in his shirt and pulled out something, walking over to me and handing the object over solemnly. I looked down at what he had placed in my hand.

It is a very rare occurrence that I doubt my own powers of observation, but I doubted them then. It was Watson's watch. I would have known it anywhere.

That singular fact would have been remarkable enough, but it was the bloody thumbprint on the outside of the pocket watch that brought me to a dead halt. Ordinarily I would have instantly been turning over data in my mind, going through all my observations about the piece of evidence before me, but I confess that I was absolutely staggered.

It was Watson's watch. It had a large, bloody thumbprint, obviously from a man that was used to using his hands for delicate work, smeared on it. A thumbprint that was roughly the size of Watson's own. Whomever had held the watch—I could not bring myself to think Watson—had blood on his hands and was weak, possibly badly injured, because the print was smeared from the fore mentioned man feebly struggling to keep a firm hold on the pocket watch.

Naturally I knew—knew in every recess of my mind and soul—that it was indeed Watson's thumbprint and Watson's blood, but I admit that for once I strongly wanted to discard my observations and learn that they were false.

"This…is Watson's blood?" I daresay the lad must have thought that I was angry at him, so cold and livid was my voice.

Tom's eyes instantly overflowed and he burst forth a torrent of words in one long sentence. "I _tole_'im I'd git 'im outta there, 'onest, but he wouldn't leave the lady an' I followed as far as I could, I did, Mr. 'Olmes, how uz I to know the men wot had 'em wuz goin' to whip the horse 'alf to death, I couldn' 'ave done anythin' else, on my 'onor it's so, an' after I—"

"Hold on a moment, Tom, tell me everything _slowly_," I admonished, striding over to the table to pour the boy a glass of water. I noted mechanically that the more nervous he got, the thicker his Cockney became.

I handed the cup to the boy and he gulped it down, drying his tears and snuffling loudly. Not for the first time I was glad that such emotions did not affect me—and then I thought about the blood on the watch and Watson, my Boswell, lying somewhere injured and bleeding or worse and I knew that whatever coldness I possessed, all of my defenses were useless when it came to Watson. I was a hypocrite.

I could have laughed dryly at the irony that an 'unfeeling machine' like myself who often denounced passions or emotional attachments of any kind could be so entirely worried about one person. And yet although I did regret that I was vulnerable in this respect, I can not honestly say that I have ever regretted meeting Watson. I do not.

Nevertheless, I tempered my emotions and spoke to the boy. "Would you like some tea? Or…I believe Mrs. Hudson has some cake downstairs…"

Tom shook his head and I waited for him to speak, observing that he had sludge on the bottom of the shoe from the western side of the docks. Still, I waited, admittedly in a more solicitous manner than usual, but as I needed to know the depth of the trouble Watson was in, if I'd had to serve the lad tea by hand and wait for an hour in order to get him talk, I would have done so. "Alright, then pray start from the beginning."

"Yessir. An' yes, I bet the blood is 'is, sir, he wuzbleedin' right bad—" I must have had a momentary lapse in my assumed mask-like expression because the boy looked at me and took a small step backward.

"Tom, anything you know, any little detail, could be of the utmost importance. Please continue."

"I wuz down at the landin' like wot you said, askin' 'bout Miss Fairchild's death..."

"Yes, yes," I replied, hoping he wouldn't take forever to get to the point.

"An' I 'appened to 'ear a struggle from a couple of buildin's down. I didn't see what wuz goin' on, but some minutes later this big chap comes along draggin' a man behin' 'im with one han' an' holdin' on to this lady, wot had the mos' beau'iful face, with the other."

I admit I was feeling rather impatient and anxious to interrupt, but the boy's face was creased in concentration and I felt it would be prudent to let him continue in his own way.

"The lady, she breaks free an' she says, 'You let 'im go!' Then she, I t'aint makin' this up, she slaps the man 'ard an' when the bloke lets go of the man wot's ou' cold, she gets between 'em. The big chap laughs and grabs hol' of her wrist and he twists it behin' her. It was all I coul' do to stop from runnin' to 'elp an' no one else ever did; all the fishermen were fishin' an' no one much else was aroun' an' those that were wouldn' 'elp." The boy took a deep breath and I maintained my silence with difficulty.

"So 'e's twisting her arm an' she kicks 'im an' then 'e wallops 'er. She falls fla' an' the brute picks 'er up an' 'its 'er _again_. Next 'e looks aroun', grabs the man wot's out, an' throws 'im inside some little shack. Then 'e goes back an' gets the lady jus' as she's stirrin'. The whole time I'm watchin' an' waitin', an' finally the big brute goes to talk with some man whose pulled up in a cab an' is yelling somethin'—Amos, I think. Anyway, I sneak next to the shack an' 'ear the girl talking' to the man wots just come 'round. An' I hear 'im tell the girl his name: Dr. John Watson!"

I steepled my hands in front of me, no doubt looking thoughtful, but in reality I needed something to do so that I did not lunge across the room and start throwing test tubes.

What the devil had Watson got himself into? And who was the girl? What was, if any, the significance of him being down there where Miss Fairchild was murdered?

"The bad man comes back an' drags the lady inside the carriage. I can' see, bu' I hear the girl arguin', an' then I 'ear wot soun's like a scuffle. Then I see Dr. Watson is staggerin' outside, 'bout fallin' over. So I go over an' talk to him, tell 'im I know yer." Tom paused to take another drink.

"And then he gave you the watch?"

He nodded.

"How…" It is somewhat uncomfortable for me to admit that I paused to make certain that my voice wasn't shaking. Damnable emotions—it was now more than ever that I needed to have my intellect in top form if I was to rescue my friend. "How was he injured?"

"Well, 'e was beaten black an' blue." I inhaled as the boy continued. "But don't worry, I know 'e pu' up a fight cuz 'is knuckles were all purple. Anyway, 'e 'ad this 'orrible cut on 'is 'ead—the only thing wot made 'im stop fightin', I'd wager—an' it uz all swollen an' there was blood on 'is face an' 'e kept 'oldin' 'is ribs an' 'e was unsteady on 'is feet. It uz like…" He paused and surveyed my face, as if wondering whether to go on.

I nodded.

"It uz like 'e wasn't awake all the way, like he uz dazed."

A severe head injury, disorientation, and possible broken ribs. Oh, Watson...

"What did he say when he gave you the watch?"

"Well, 'e tried to talk, sir, bu' he was in an' awful lot of pain…"

I hoped Tom didn't notice my involuntary wince.

"So I asked, didn't 'e wan' me to 'elp 'im escape? An' he said—"

I interrupted. "He couldn't leave the lady."

"Dead righ', sir," the boy said in an admiring tone.

It was no great detection to guess that my brave and chivalrous colleague would not leave a woman in need, even if his own situation could be graver than hers.

"Then 'e said," here the boy imitated Watson's courteous way of speaking. "'Please tell 'olmes tha' the lady an' I,' then 'e shuddered all over an' 'eld his 'ead. I said I'd tell yer 'e was in trouble an'…" Tom's eyes welled up with tears. "An' I said I'd tell yer where 'e wen'. 'E called me a 'stout soldier' an' I was off."

No, Watson, it is you who are the stout soldier… I could only hope that his courageous and gallant ways would not kill him.

"I started to follow 'im, but the driver whipped the 'orse 'alf to death an' I…" Tom swallowed. "I lost 'im."

My fists clenched but I tried to mask my disappointment. "Can you describe the men for me?"

"Well, the first chap wot did all the hittin' was huge, 'bout double the doctor's weight, an' taller, too. You ever seen a bull pup? Those little dogs with pushed in noses and wrinkles and droopy cheeks?

I nodded.

"'E looked just like a bull dog an' 'e talked the same as me. The man drivin' the carriage, well, I didn't really get to see 'im, but…I think maybe 'e was a Yank."

"The lady?"

"She was a beauty wot looked like a stage dancer, 'cept she didn't have any face paint. An' she uz dressed proper."

"Anything else?"

He hesitated and I raised an eyebrow. "'Er eyes. They were slanted."

"She was Oriental?"

"If that means she 'ad eyes like a cat, then yeah."

I nodded. A bulldog, an American, an Asian woman, and my dearest friend. How did they fit together?

"Is that everything?"

"Yessir."

"Can you show me where all of this happened as well as the place you lost sight of the cab?"

"Yessir. An' sir…I'm dreadful sorry I couldn't save 'im."

"You did more than many people in your situation would have, Tom."

"Do yer think we'll fin' 'im?"

"I'm sure of it." I must.

The boy smiled at me and headed down the stairs, looking back to see if I was following. I headed downstairs after the boy and nearly collided into Mrs. Hudson. I had thought I was doing a remarkable job of suppressing my emotions, but she took one look at me and grasped my arm. Either she was becoming accustomed to me and thus could read even _my_ impassive face or I was less clever at ferreting away my feelings than I previously thought.

"What is it, Mr. Holmes? Is everything all right?"

How could I answer that? 'No, everything is not all right, my world is falling down'? Certainly not.

She released my sleeve after I remained silent a long moment. "I never meant to pry…"

"That isn't it, Mrs. Hudson, it is merely…a difficult matter." I cleared my throat. "Dr. Watson may be in some trouble." There was no point in panicking the woman.

Her eyes filled with concern but she smiled bravely and patted my arm as I shifted uneasily at her attentions.

"I'm sure he'll be alright, Mr. Holmes, with you looking after him."

Her innocently meant words could not have struck me deeper. I was _supposed_ to look after him and make sure the dear fellow came to no harm and yet look at the situation he was in. I managed a small nod and followed Tom out into the street.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note**: This next section is in a different sort of style--third person--though I have attempted to maintain Victorianesque type prose. Just thought I would give you fair warning. Also, it has adult subject matter in it, although nothing is explicitly described. Still, again, fair warning. )

As for whose POV it is in, well, I think you can guess, but I'll write it at the bottom of the page so you can scroll down and look if you'd rather know before you read...

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You cannot breathe, no matter how you shift, you cannot manage to take in a full breath. He is crushing you into the wall, the wall with the dark stains of who knows what and no windows, so you cannot breathe, all you can do is say to yourself—in two different languages—how much you despise him. This hate vibrates inside you and you think, if you had a choice, it would not be you on your knees, forced up against a wall, helpless and exposed.

He is angry with you for your latest disobedience, but though he bought you from the last man you were sold to, he did not buy your will and he knows this. It is, perhaps, why owning you is so appealing to him. He wants what they all want.

Almost nothing that has happened to you since you were a child has been your choice, so how could you not take any escape that you found, how could you not try to escape, even if there was nowhere you could go? Even if they find you—and they do, they always find you—even so, you make attempt after attempt.

His breath smells sickeningly of stomach acid and you almost gag but you know that if you do so, he will beat you, and you also know that right now you cannot afford to be beaten. Not if you wish to have a chance—a chance to help the doctor, that is, for you know you yourself will have no chances.

He keeps you pinned against the wall and you do not struggle as fervently as you usually do, you dare not for fear of waking the doctor, the only person you can remember who has been kind to you that is not dead—and yet you can hardly stand the man's hands touching your cheek. It is time to use your old trick, your best defense, where you turn your mind into a bird and take flight, soaring away to think of something else, something other than what is happening to you.

You see your sister, Lian. She is as lithe as her name which means graceful willow, and she is always moving. She looks like your step father, Shing, because she has his round face, black eyes, and pudgy, crooked nose, but Lian smiles and smiles where Shing would not, and you think she is as beautiful as the finest piece of jade and much more valuable. She dances away from you, reaching out for your hands, and you feel a deep pang of sorrow because you know, in truth, you shall never hold her hand again.

Although you are only half sisters, you love her dearly. _Lian_, you think, _Lian I am sorry_. You remember how she clutched your hand when you both saw Shing pocketing the meager coins given to him by the strange men who came to your hut only a week after your mother's death. You think of her plump, damp hand in yours as you told her to be quiet and hide, but they found you, they always find you, and you think of how at first you were sure you could protect her. You did not protect her…

You are torn from your musings when the man hits you, making your lip bleed again, and you try and push him away with all the strength you possess. He lets you twist away from him and you pull your skirt down, your arms around yourself, and look to make sure the doctor is not awake, that he has not seen, and you are relieved he is still unaware.

"I missed you, Mira," the man says, and you hate that he uses your nickname, the one your sister used, but he is not hurting you or touching you any more and you say nothing so that you do not provoke him.

He frowns at something he sees in your face. "You are mine, my pet," he says and you give him your coldest look, the look your mother used to say could freeze all of Siam, but he merely smiles, demonstrating how powerless you are, so powerless you cannot affect him.

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Author's Note: This is, in a round about way, Samira's POV, but you probably figured that out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note**: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed me! Your comments are helpful and do a lot to inspire me. As far as warnings go, this next chapter has some violence in it but nothing horribly graphic. Thanks for reading! :)

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**Watson**

Remembering this next incident is rather like being awoken when sleepwalking, peering numbly through the fog in your brain and attempting to make sense of the receding images and your lost purpose.

I was not yet truly conscious, but dimly I heard, "I am no yours."

Someone was speaking, someone I knew, but the vestiges of darkness clung to me and I was not entirely aware.

There was a sudden commotion nearby with a clatter as something slammed into the ground and I winced in the habit of a soldier waking up to the sound of artillery fire. I confess I thought dimly that my regiment was under attack when something slammed into my side and jarred me further into awareness. _I say_, my first thought was, _these sudden awakenings are beginning to grate my nerves. _

"I am sorry," a quiet voice murmured.

I opened my eyes to see Miss Samira Sakda inches away from me, her feet tangled in a flimsy chair. My head injury slowed my thought processes even more than usual so it was a few seconds before I realized that she had been thrown into the piece of furniture and had tumbled over it into me. Looking past her, I saw the room we were in was extremely small, the walls made of an ancient plaster covered over with stains, and though there weren't any fish guts on the floor, there was something more ominous; in the left corner of the room there was a wall mounted chain a few feet long with a wrist shackle at the end of it.

She bent over me. "I hurt you more?"

I took a few deep breaths, my ribs screaming, before I could respond. Not only was my head throbbing, but for some reason my old shoulder wound was burning, the muscles around it feeling as though they were being clenched by a gigantic fist. I tried to move my hands and realized they were tied behind me—hence the shoulder pain. "I… am all right."

"Don't worry, dear fellow," an unfamiliar voice said lightly. "I'm sure I'll remedy that shortly."

Miss Sakda rose to her feet and stood between me and the man speaking. I blinked; there was something strange about his flat voice…

"I would make deal," she said. Rarely have I heard a young woman more composed in the face of danger. "You let Dr. Wat-son free, and I…will no more try to run."

"Mira, Mira… When will you learn?" The man—I could not yet see him, for Miss Sakda blocked my view—spoke with an underlying threat in his voice, but the young lady stood her ground.

"What do you mean?"

"I daresay you shan't escape again, deal or not." It was obvious that I was still not at my best as it was only then that I realized he was an American. He strode toward her.

Debilitated or not, I was not going to let the lady face danger on her own so I began the arduous process of attempting to shove myself upright despite my being bound.

In the interval I studied my foe. The American was a short man with a portly face and large arms. Although he was taller than Miss Sakda, he was certainly not taller than me. What he lacked in height, however, he made up for with his powerful musculature and extreme strength, which he demonstrated when he shoved Miss Sakda into the corner of the room using only one hand.

I barely had time to shove myself the rest of the way upright when a blow crashed into my abdomen and I doubled over. Although I had no illusions about the state of my stamina, nevertheless the American made a foolish move when he ignored me and towered over Miss Sakda, securing the shackle on her left wrist.

"Maybe so…" Miss Sakda took a breath as he tightened the metal cuff. "But if he go free, I will no more fight you."

The man hit her. _Hit_ her, a restrained woman, already on her knees. Though black spots dashed in front of my eyes, I was damned if I was going to remain still and do nothing, so I lunged forward, crashing my good shoulder into the man and then lashing out with my right foot. The move worked just as I intended; the brute tumbled to the floor.

Before I could move again, however, he threw himself upward and lunged for me. Miss Sakda, showing quite a lot of pluck, grabbed hold of his ankle with her right hand, effectively causing him to stumble.

He fell short of reaching me, but he did jerk around and lash out at the lady so that she crashed against the wall. Immediately, I tried to steady myself, although having my hands tied certainly did not help my already unsteady balance, so that I could assist her when the man pulled a small pistol out of his coat and put it to her throat.

"Doctor, if you move, I kill her."

Naturally I froze, aghast at the realization that this man was not bluffing, that he would dare to threaten a lady in such a manner. I am loathe to describe the anger and helplessness I felt as he cocked the gun at her throat.

It was not that I was a stranger to violence. Even so many years later, I still would wake in the night with the sight of my comrades lying in pieces on foreign soil in front of my eyes. War is the best alleviator of a delicate constitution; if you have a low tolerance for violence or pain, if you cannot turn it all off somehow, you die. Literally, of course, or your soul dies, piece by piece.

And yet, I had never had to watch a woman, who could not effectively fight back, being beaten, and it was terrible in its own right. Terrible and infuriating.

Miss Sakda, to her credit, had a face that was most likely more composed than my own. Still holding the gun on her, the American approached me and I drew myself up, glaring at him. He would not have the satisfaction of seeing any trace of fear out of me.

I was certain he was going to kill me and so I thought of Holmes and of the guilt he would feel. I knew well the exact type of anguish he would go through, having experienced it myself at the falls, and I hoped that somehow he would be all right without me, that he would temper his own self-destructive habits. _Please, Holmes_, I thought, _be well, my friend_. I was seeing Holmes before my mind's eye so it took me by surprise when I felt the blow crunch into my already injured forehead. My vision instantly dimmed and I fell to the floor.

"You have a penchant for injuring innocents, Mira," the man was saying, and somehow I could hear him, but I could not move, could not react. The entire room seemed to swirl around me and everything was red, no doubt because of the blood in my eyes. "Remember the last time you tried to save someone? It ended rather badly, did it not?"

Somehow I managed to turn my head and look at Miss Sakda's face. I have never seen a colder look of hatred than that she gave the American. Even more amazing was that_ there was no fear in her eyes._ Her calm, cold look changed when she glanced over at me; she seemed full of regret. _I am sorry_, her eyes told me, _that you are involved_. In her solemn bravery it was clear to me that a woman of such poise, slenderness, and sorrow must have led an extremely difficult life and my sympathy went out to her.

Following her gaze, the American looked over at me and I saw clear hatred on his fleshy face and I did not doubt that he meant to kill the both of us at some point in the near future. The last thing I remember thinking about before the redness washed over me and I was insensible again, was that I prayed to God that Holmes would be careful if he took on this American viper.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note**: Thanks to all of you that are reviewing! :) Now we go back to Holmes...

* * *

**Holmes**

The pit in my stomach was steadfastly growing larger. I had already examined the small hut where my friend had been briefly held, which yielded hardly any new data, and I had traced the alley the initial encounter had taken place in. If I read the footprints and other telltale marks right, Watson had stopped next to a young woman who appeared to have swooned. After a few moments, a large man—no doubt the Bulldog—had intercepted them. Judging from the blood on the ground and the rollicking footsteps, Watson had put up a valiant fight and the young woman—the Oriental—had endeavored to assist him, as well.

There was nothing in either place, however, that could tell me who had my friend and where they had taken him. Even the junction where Tom had lost them was filled with so many wagon tracks it would take a great deal of time to follow them all and decipher which one led to my friend.

The rain that had pattered down in the afternoon did little to help and also took away the possibility of my using Toby. Not even his keen nose could decipher a water logged trail. I did manage to find one promising lead; there was a house next to the alley that had a window overlooking the spot where Watson was accosted.

I questioned the woman of the house, a fishwife, with all outward signs of my concern suppressed. This unfortunately did not mean that I was no longer feeling the dread that was gnawing on me, a feeling which was gradually getting worse and worse and that I recognized as worry. It wasn't something I had ever done much of, not until I met Watson. Restraining all traces of anxiety, I took a step toward the woman who was, other than Tom, the only witness.

"I will ask once again, madam. What did you see?" The calmness and coldness in my voice was unmistakable and the fishwife's expression—which had started off with greed in anticipation of getting a coin for her help—became more wary.

"An' 'ow d'yer know I saw anythin'?" The woman backed away in the direction of the fireplace, no doubt planning to grab the rifle that hung over the mantle.

"Your second story hangs over the alley in which my friend was first attacked. You were, by your own admission, home during the time the incident occurred. You could not help hearing the struggle unfolding right next to your lodgings and there are very few women who would resist the urge to look out the window."

She lunged for the mantle and grabbed the gun, turning it on me quickly. Her triumphant look faded after I had darted forward, almost without her notice, and disarmed her in less than a second. Then it was I who had the rifle in my hand and I admit my eyes glittered dangerously.

"As a gentleman, I generally balk at raising my hand to a woman. In certain instances, however," I continued, my voice hard, "I am forced to make exceptions. You will tell me everything you know." I did not ask her; I told her.

"Yer…yer woul'n't 'urt an ole woman…" The fishwife, who was, by all indication, no older than thirty, raised her hands and attempted to look even more pathetic than she already did.

"I would not _enjoy_ hurting a woman. That does mean that I would not do so." I knew my face was at its coldest and evidently my eyes showed their hatred of the pathetic figure who was attempting to withhold information about Watson because she whimpered. "You cannot imagine the lengths to which I would go to find information…" I said it as a threat and the poor woman took it as such.

"I…I'll tell yer everythin', I promise, on'y don't let on it wuz me wot tole yer."

"Make certain you do not leave the slightest detail out." My eyes glittered frigidly as I watched her take a deep breath in preparation of telling me all.

I had not lied to the woman; I felt a cold hard rage within me and I knew that I was quite capable of nearly anything if it would help me discover my only friend's whereabouts. For Watson, I was beginning to realize, there were few, if any, lengths to which I would not go.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: **Hey all, thanks for continuing to read my story!! I'm working hard on it so I hope you all like it. :) Getting reviews is always lovely--and is definitely inspiring. Thanks to all of you who've commented! Warning wise: there is violence in this next chapter, but it is not graphically described.

* * *

**Samira**

You are entirely sick of being shoved into the corner, your nose pressed against the crease in the wall like a child being punished. And that is what you are, you think, a child being punished, except that you are no longer a child and you have not done anything to be punished for, unless you count what happened to Lian and Miss Fairchild, and then the truth is that you probably deserve the riding crop that is falling on your back, deserve that and everything else that has been forced upon you and much worse...

You quickly stop yourself from thinking of gentle Lian and kind Miss Fairchild, because once the door to grief opens it will not close—it never closes—and right now you have another person on your conscience who might die because of you.

Because of the doctor, you do not struggle, you let the man hit you again and again, because you know the harder you fight, the worse the damage will be. To take your mind off the violent, stinging pain on your back, you think about your left wrist, which is throbbing under the iron, but you decide that it is better to feel the pain than to go numb, because once numb, one generally stays that way. Of course, you would not mind if your back were to go numb, but unfortunately it never does. Neither does the pain you feel thinking of your sister—you will never see her again—and the guilt that wells in your chest makes the punishment you are receiving almost welcome.

But you must be well enough to help Dr. Wat-son, and so you wish the flogging would stop but it continues—it always continues—and the thing that really bothers you is that you have caused the doctor to be injured once more. Why is it that anyone that helps you, anyone that gets close to you, dies? You must not let it happen again.

"Your friend, the interloper, is dead and, oh, that's right," he leans in close, stopping the whipping. "You killed your sister."

"_Mai_!" you yell, and then repeat, "No" in English. "_Khun bpen kâat-gon._"

He cuffs the side of your skull as if he knows that you said, 'You are the murderer.' Your head hits the wall and for a second your vision is all white pain, but you think of Lian and whisper, "Blood on you will no wash away."

He takes hold of your shoulder and spins you around so that you face him and your back screams out when it touches the wall. "I was going to protect you, Mira," he says. "You would have had a better life! But you have wasted every last coin I spent on you. You will be punished."

You hear the promise in his words and you meet his gaze with your own. You are familiar with pain; you have become quite used to it. It is pain in someone else that is hard for you.

He stares at you and suddenly stands, as if reading your thoughts, heading toward the doctor. "You have always had quite the bleeding heart, Mira…"

"_Pai nai_?" You ask hurriedly. "Where are you going?"

"Maybe your punishment would be better served if it was given to someone else."

"_Mai_! No! _Ga roo naa yaa thahm yang nan kha_!" As usual, you speak Thai when you are upset so you hurry to correct yourself; "Please do not do that."

The black-haired villain—whom, though he says he is named Mr. A. Crawford, you only think of as _he_ or _him_ because evil does not have a name, does not deserve one— stands over the prostrate man.

You take in a quick breath. "Please, he has no done wrong, he does not know you, please to leave him alone." You hate asking him for anything but you begged for your sister and you can beg for this chivalrous man as well. If only you had not fainted in hunger this morning, if only he had not stopped to help…

"For now, I'll grant your request. But remember, my pet, if you run away or disobey me or even look at me in a manner that I do not like, another person shall die because of you—_him_," he points at the doctor.

You tense, the myriad of scars on your back as well as your new injuries pressing against the wall as you move further away from him. They are everywhere, these scars, crisscrossed on your back like a map of city roads, only they lead to nowhere.

"For now, the rest of your punishment will be fasting. Think on your sins, my sweet, as you starve. I've not the energy just now for anything more."

He leaves the room and you breathe a sigh of relief. Not eating, you can handle that—it has already been two days since you last had a full meal and frankly, it will make it easier for you when you try and slip out of your shackle. As soon as the door is closed and locked behind him, you move toward the doctor, pulling your chain to its limits.

"Dr. Wat-son?" If you stretch—your left arm extended out painfully behind you, the cuff rubbing your already injured wrist, the fresh cuts from the lash straining wider and bleeding—you can just touch his shoulder. He is facing in the opposite direction so you cannot see the extent of his head injury, but you focus on his hands which are tied behind his back and think that you must untie him. "Dr. Wat-son?"

There is no answer. You stretch, exerting your muscles fully, reaching out with your right hand, and you can just barely touch the knot on the rope he is tied with. There is only one choice; you must get out of your restraint.

It will not be as easy as last time, you know, because he has made the iron tighter. You move slightly backward so that there is slack in the chain. You are glad that you have lost weight and you pull your thumb over on top of your palm to make your hand as slim as possible. You turn your hand, holding the cuff with your right, and pull. You pull harder, grimacing—the left is the wrist that is broken—and when you see the deep grooves in the delicate flesh of your wrist, you stop and suck in several small little breaths—it hurts, hurts, _tam jép_.

You once again crawl forward on your knees as far as your throbbing wrist, stinging back, and now aching shoulder, allow. Again, you are able to touch the knot. Maybe, you think, you can pull him closer, if only you are able to get a good hold… You reach and reach and suddenly you feel a pop in your wrist that makes you jerk backwards and fight against the blackness that takes over your vision.

You are still fighting the agony when you hear a low moan and a mumble that sounds like "Holmes," and you think about how the man who bought you will never let someone who has been kind to you live.

You close your eyes against the pain and stretch again, feeling the metal dig into your wrist, and then your fingers touch the rope and, yes, finally you have a decent hold. Your muscles are straining and there is blood running down your back and your left wrist will most likely never be the same, but you lean back and you pull, you pull and pull, and finally the doctor inches toward you.

It is not much, but it is a start, and you continue the routine despite the nausea forming in your stomach at the intense pain. You feel like you are going to vomit, even though you have nothing in your stomach, but finally, you are able to reach the rope a bit easier. Your fingers fumble with the knot—you have never untied anything with one hand—but you do not quit; you worry the knot and the rope until the tips of your fingers bleed. At last, the knot is undone and his hands are free. Your work is not yet finished and so you take hold of his left arm and pull him flat on his back, reaching again to pull his right arm out from underneath him. There.

Now all that is left is for you have to wake him up and manage to get him out of here, somehow, although you are not certain he can make it on his own. He must, you think, because if you leave with him they will find you—they always find you—but at the same time you know that you _have_ to help Dr. Wat-son, somehow. It is a desperate situation as it is and moreover, you have a feeling that the next time the man who paid for you returns, he will kill the doctor.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note**: Hey guys, here's the next installment. Again I want to thank you all for reading and for reviewing. And yes, this next chapter has violence in it. (I swear I'm not a violent person...) Thanks again for reading :)

* * *

**(A Groggy) Watson**

"Please to wake up, Dr. Wat-son," a voice was whispering. "Wake up, now, please."

The voice pierced the numbing darkness and I admit to being annoyed at whoever was disturbing my sleep. I have never been my best on being awakened, as Holmes could attest to.

"Please," the voice whispered so desperately that on some deep level I thought that one of my patients was pleading for help and I needed to tend to them.

I opened my eyes and instantly wished I had not. My vision was blurry and my head felt as though someone was beating on it with an iron hammer. I began to sit up in alarm but there was a sudden pain in my shoulder and in my ribs that bade me to reconsider.

"Shhh, you are all right," that same calm voice soothed.

"What…?" My slur was back and as my vision was blurred it took me a moment to realize it was Miss Samira Sakda leaning over me. Then, as I realized where I was, I became confused; hadn't my hands been tied?

"Doctor Wat-son, be still, you are well. I untied you." She had evidentially torn some her dress because she pressed a piece of the fabric onto my forehead. "You must get out of here," she said after a moment.

I blinked, still half dazed and in a whirl of pain. A sudden shudder ran through me and the room felt quite cold. As confused as I was, I recognized that I was beginning to chill and that my condition was going to rapidly deteriorate. I had to act while I could still think half-straight. "We must escape together—"

Miss Sakda shook her head, raising her left wrist and indicating the chain. "I can no leave."

"Miss Sakda." Even as utterly slow witted as I felt, I realized that my slur was getting worse and I cleared my throat. "I will not leave you here."

She gave a long suffering sigh that made me recall Holmes. "You must—"

"I will not." Slurring or not, my tone was firm. "We leave together, or not at all."

I must have lost consciousness; for when I awakened I found that she had taken off the sash of her dress and wrapped it around my head. Her worried amber-brown eyes were watching the door. I furrowed my brow; did she expect someone?

"You…would make a good doctor's assistant," I murmured. "Thank you for your administrations."

The bright smile she beamed down at me seemed worth the pain that my speaking caused me. When she was happy, her slim, sad face brightened inside and out and she was quite beautiful.

"It is I who should thank you…and apologize." Her happiness faded and she looked down at her lap.

I ignored my shoulder's protestations and shoved myself onto my elbows, determined to sit up, but Miss Sakda once again put her small hand on my chest, so that I had to remain still unless I wanted to forcefully remove her hand; of course, I did not. "Miss Sakda, you really must stop apologizing, you have been most—"

"But I am reason you are here." At what must have been a puzzled expression on my part, she asked, "Do you remember why Amos attacked you?"

"No, but I am sure it is not your fault," I continued stubbornly.

She closed her eyes for a moment and then said, "Much of everything is my fault. Let me tell you. I escape from this place Thursday last. I…I had no where to go, but my sister Lian," her always calm voice cracked slightly. "Once told me of a woman named Miss Fairchild who helped…" Miss Sakda avoided my glance. "People like us. So I went to her. She was unmarried sister of boat captain, and very kind… In going to her I killed her just as if I had shot her."

I opened my mouth to argue but she shook her head.

"She found me place to work as seamstress—she even gave me dress—my own dress," my heart went out to her when I heard how happy this simple kindness had made her. "I went to work on Saturday. I came back and…" She took a breath. "There were all these men everywhere, all over our house. I heard neighbor say they were Yarders, and I ask what had happened and neighbor said Miss Fairchild was dead. I did no know what to do."

"Did you speak to Scotland Yard? Ask them for assistance?"

She met my eyes then, with a look that was a mixture of disbelief and even a small amount of disdain. "Talk to strange _men_?"

I deserved that small rebuke, considering all that I guessed she had been through, but I said, "You are talking to me."

Her eyes softened. "You are different. You are…kind." Before I could respond that I merely acted in the way any decent person would, she continued. "In truth, I did approach one man. He look young and thin, and not…alarming… I asked him what had happened and told him I lived at that house."

I could tell from the tone of her voice that I would not like what happened next. I remember thinking that I distinctly preferred the battlefield, where at least one had a chance to fend off one's attackers, than a world in which innocent women, who simply did not have a chance, were preyed upon.

"He said she had been…murdered," again her calm voice showed a symptom of her pain, "and he wanted to know why I had not been in house, since I was her servant. I told him I was not her servant, that I was her friend—" She shook her head and gave a small, undulating laugh that was a fusion of innocence, scorn, and understanding. "I should know better. He said I had better get out of there and that he no have time to deal with me and that no matter how many times I said she was friend that still did no mean I would get my…dirty…hands on her things."

Words failed me. I could not think of a thing to say to her to comfort her and I confess my head ache did not make me any wiser. "He…thought you were lying just so you could steal her things?"

"Yes," she responded simply. "Then I know not to ask them for help, but I had nowhere to go—I slept in shed at work, but they found me and threw me out. This morning I was going to see if Yarders were still at Miss Fairchild's house or if I could go and see what had happen for my self. I did no get there—I fainted. I woke up and you were there, taking my pulse. You ask me what happened, I said I was only tired, but you said you thought I needed something to eat. I had no money, but you said you would buy me breakfast if you could have pleasure of my company. Remember now?"

I vaguely remembered the sense of alarm I felt upon coming across a young woman lying on the ground. "Yes, I dimly recall…"

"Then Amos, who was looking for me, came up behind you and hit you. You fought him—you were brave like tiger—but he clubbed you. So you are only here because you tried to help me."

Her explanation made sense but I had the feeling I had not yet recalled something about the reason I had been down in the fishing quarters in the first place.

"And I would do it again. It is not your fault that Amos was after you or that you were exhausted! And it is not your fault that Miss Fairchild was murdered." She opened her mouth to argue, but I continued. "That is the final word on the matter."

Miss Sakda hesitantly smiled at me. "…thank you. You had better get rest now, while I think on how to get away from here."

I had not planned on heeding her advice but apparently I must have slipped back into the darkness for the next thing I knew the little room was dim and I heard a heavy foot step outside the door.

Miss Sakda looked over at me. "This is your chance."

"I refuse…" I took a deep breath as my head increased its pounding. "to leave you."

"Then promise me you will stay still and act like you are asleep. Do not move. All our chances depend on this. Do you promise?"

I was momentarily taken aback, but I gave her my solemn word.

"Then please, roll over on your side, facing away from door."

I did as she said, squeezing my eyes closed as the sound of steps got closer. It wasn't hard for me to feign being insensible—in truth, more than half of me was.

I heard the door open and attempted to stay the feverish shiver that ran down my spine. It was then I knew that we had better escape soon, before I was completely useless.

"'Ello," said a guttural voice that I recognized as the man who had treated us so horribly before.

"Hello, Amos. You are here for me?" Even injured as I was, I still marveled at the young woman's composure.

"Tha's righ', luv."

"If I do no fight…you will set me free first?"

I heard the man let out a bark of laughter. "I rather like yer chained."

I suppressed my shudder at the brute's tone.

"Then come here." I noticed a strange tone in her voice, but apparently Amos did not because I heard him approach her. There was a rustling sound and then I heard a quick thwack—the sound of iron hitting flesh, once, then again.

"Wench!"

Apparently Miss Sakda had not had the strength to effectively dispatch the man on her own. I heard the rattling sound of the chain and I was frozen, trying to decide if I should break my promise, when I heard a desperate gasp for breath and the sickening sound of someone choking.

I quickly rolled over and saw that Miss Sakda had hit Amos in the head with her shackle and that the large man had his thick hands around her neck, throttling her. Immediately I pushed myself upright, my equilibrium tilting as I staggered drunkenly to my feet. Before I could move over to the struggling pair, she hit the man again with the side of her shackle, then pulled her left arm back as far as she could and hit him once more. I stumbled forward and saw her eyes roll back in her head and she slumped down, still in the blackguard's grasp. Instinct took over as I tackled the man in a move reminiscent of my rugby days and he let go of her, his head cracking against the stone floor with a sickening thump and then bouncing to hit it once more.

I managed to roll off of the man, my pulse thundering in my ears and my head aching, and I believe I would have passed out right then if I had not noticed that I could not hear Miss Sakda breathing.

My medicinal instincts must have taken over because I was suddenly numb to all my pains as I crawled over next to the lady's still form. I attempted to kneel beside her but my balance failed me, so I sat cross legged on the floor next to her like an American Indian.

"Miss Sakda?" I still could not hear her breathe. Hurriedly, I lifted her up onto my knees and raised her arms above her head, let them down, and then raised them again. I repeated the action, hoping that her lungs would fill with air, and then I leaned over her. To my immense relief she began to cough, weakly at first and then with force. I lifted her upper body in my arms, rubbing her back, and slurred soothing words to her—I daresay neither of us were in our peak shape.

Finally she opened her eyes and looked up at me. She tried to talk but began coughing again and I shook my head.

"Wait a moment before talking," I said softly. She nodded and limply relaxed back into my arms. I let myself relax against the wall, as well, as my own injuries had suddenly begun to catch up with me—in the struggle with Amos and the adrenaline wracked actions of tending a patient, I had momentarily forgotten my own injuries. As soon as she was out of danger, however, the pain returned. My vision remained steadily shaky; sometimes I could see clearly and other times everything was a blur.

After a minute or two of merely breathing, Miss Sakda sat up and touched her bruised throat.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice ragged. "May I…ask a favor?"

"Certainly."

"Could you please get key to room off of Amos? And see if he has shackle key?"

I nodded and gingerly crawled toward the man. I looked over him—he was dead—and found that several of her blows had hit him right on the temple, but judging by the spreading stain of blood underneath him it was my tackle that had meant his death, cracking open his skull. I regretfully admit that I felt no remorse at the realization that I had killed him. I emptied Amos' pockets and found the large, skeleton key that fit in the door and a smaller, straight key that had to be for the shackles.

I crawled back over to her and in turn released her left wrist from the shackle and instantly took in how swollen, bruised, and bloody it was.

"Can you move it?" Again I was insinctively acting the doctor, taking a gentle hold on her wrist and examining it.

She tried to bend it and gasped in pain. "No."

I rummaged about in my pockets, found a large handkerchief and I quickly bandaged her wrist, wishing I had a splint to put on it.

"You should go without me."

"Miss Sakda—"

"You…may name me Samira." I must have had a strange look on my face because she added, "My last owner always said 'Miss Sakda.'"

"…Samira, I refuse to leave you."

A look of pain that I divined had nothing to do with her wrist, crossed her face. "If I go with you, it will make you thief."

"A thief?" Obviously still slow, it took me a few seconds to understand what she meant. "You mean…?"

"Yes. You would be stealing his…property."

At my horrified look, she turned away, misunderstanding my reaction. "But, that's nonsense, you—you are a human being—"

"I only want you to know so that you would understand why you must leave me." Her voice was soft, insistent.

I swallowed. The lady's courage and self sacrifice was greater than, or at the least equal to, many similar emotions I had seen between comrades in the army. "Miss—Samira, you have only given me another reason to make certain that you come with me."

"You will no leave without me?"

"No." I started to stand and promptly my vision darkened so that I had to grab hold of the wall. "And as you can see," I added dryly, "I doubt I would be able to walk without help in any case."

She gave a small, tinkling laugh. "I will help you."

Samira moved beside me and I put my arm over her shoulder, apologizing for the impropriety. She gasped suddenly when my arm hit her skin.

"What is it?" I asked, drawing back from her in fear I had injured her or, worse, frightened her.

"Nothing."

I shook my head and took a gentle hold of her shoulders, turning her so that I could see her back. The back of her dress had several lines of dark red where blood had stained the cloth. I stared at the marks in silence before I gasped, realizing that they were lash marks. "These must be treated."

"There is no time."

And she unlocked the door and once again she put my arm over her shoulders. I argued with her, but she insisted the injuries to her back were not serious ones, that she'd had much worse, and I leaned against her, aghast at the treatment this young lady had received. How unfair and unkind had her life been that she thought I was a saint when I really had done nothing more for her than what any decent person would do? I looked over at her and grew concerned at the small grimace I saw.

"We…are far from town," she said as the two of us hobbled out of the room. Prudently, she locked the door behind us. I was quite embarrassed at the shape I was in that she had to help me to such a degree, but her slim face was full of determination and there truly was no other choice. "He has large grounds…but not many servants. If we go quietly, we may make it outside."

She was right; the house was quite deserted. After walking a short distance the after effect of my rugby tackle caught up with me and my vision turned black. I staggered to a stop.

"I…am not sure…I can go on…" I said truthfully.

"You must, Dr. Wat-son," she whispered. I tried to move forward again but I nearly swooned and I fell back cursing my weakness.

Samira took a different approach and began talking to me quietly. "You remember I mentioned my sister Lian? She was my half sister by blood, but for her, I felt _plong jai rak _and she felt same for me… It is hard to explain this in English. It means 'irrevocable heart' and it is irreversible feeling of love and friendship."

I confess that I was absolutely confounded as to why she was telling me that right at the moment.

"When one feels this, you love person in a way that makes it impossible to withdraw from relationship. It is lifelong commitment, it is binding as contract, you simply cannot quit. It is often said for lovers, but also for family or friends. Lian and I loved with _plong jai rak_. You feel for someone that way, too, do you not?"

I nodded. Although I had loved my late wife Mary dearly, I must confess that I instantly thought of Holmes. Our friendship certainly seemed irrevocable.

"Is it Holmes?" she asked.

I must have had a comical look of shock on my face because she smiled. "You say name when unconscious."

"Ah. He is my best friend in the world."

"And you feel irrevocable heart, for him."

Again I nodded, taking in a deep breath and trying to will my body into shape. The two of us stood, wavering, no doubt making quite a pathetic pair as the pain in my head worsened and I grew quite woozy. I felt her slip her arms around my waist and hold tight to my arm around her shoulder, and then she started moving again. It was at that point that the world dimmed.

The last thing I heard her say clearly was this; "You must keep moving, you must hang on, and you must do it for Holmes, the one you feel _plong jai rak_ for."

_Yes_, I thought dimly, _for Holmes_. And then I was once again immersed in darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note**: Before I forget, I meant to say: in case you wondered, yes, I am using actual words/phrases in Thai. Here's the next chapter, somewhat short because it is sort of one of those 'meanwhile back at the ranch' kinds. lol. No violence here--yippee--just angst. Well, as angsty as Holmes ever is. XD Thanks again for sticking with me and reading and reviewing! I luffs all of you readers. :)

* * *

**Holmes**

"And hurry!" I called to the driver.

Either eager to receive a large tip or perhaps in alarm at my no doubt harried appearance, the driver whipped the horse and soon the carriage was bounding along with me bumping around inside of it.

It had been easy enough to get the information of what she had witnessed from the fishwife, but the damnable woman had taken her time revealing who the man who had attacked Watson was employed by.

I closed my eyes and pinched my forehead, longing for an escape to the situation that had caused my carefully checked emotions to careen ever further out of my grasp.

Left to myself in the cab, I could easily picture everything the woman had described, especially as it matched my own findings at the scene—Watson fighting valiantly, the dog that had attacked him striking him twice in the head with a club, the brute beating him while he was down, despite the woman's attempts to get between them...

After I had heard the fishwife's tale, I was rather upset and I broke several glass figurines in the room with the butt of my rifle until she had stammered out the name I had asked for. Had she not finally revealed who Amos worked for, I believe I would have genuinely injured the woman. At the least.

It was a rare situation that would arouse in me such black rage, but there was no denying that I had nearly lost control of my emotions.

I could only wait and see. I am usually more patient than Watson, but in this instance I was way past being impatient and verging on the lines of being quite unpredictable, even to myself. _This_, I reminded myself, _this_ was the reason for all of my guarded emotions. _This_ was why I endeavored to form no attachments.

But the bond had been formed and I was—dare I admit it—quite petrified of losing that attachment.

I kept thinking that Alexander Crawford, the man who had recently bought the large Sheffield estate, the rogue who had Watson, had better pray that my friend was well, for I could not, in my present state of unrest, be responsible for my actions.

The carriage rattled forward and I urged the horse onward silently, one thought constantly repeated inside my turbulent mind: 'If only it did not take half an hour to get to the estate!'


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note**: You guys are great for sticking with me. I know the suspense is hard, but I'm working on the story, I promise. No violence, really, in this part, but pain is present. And to satisfy you guys, this chapter is longer. :) And of course, thanks as always for reading and reviewing.

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**Samira**

The weight is difficult enough, and your body will not let you forget your broken wrist and stinging back. You have been able to shuffle along, Dr. Wat-son at your side, only because he seemed to be somewhat semi-conscious—helping you to walk by managing to take a few steps of his own every now and again.

He has just stopped helping you and he is no longer responding with a grunt or a groan when you call his name. In fact, he is entirely limp. You are not going to make it outside. You might not, in fact, make it another step, although the stairs to the first floor are quite literally right in front of you.

You sag sideways and Dr. Wat-son slides down the wall to the floor. Thinking several not so ladylike things in two different languages, you look around the hall for an idea.

There is not much time until _he_ comes for his usual, as he says 'nightcap,' and you know he will find Amos' body and then he will come for you and the doctor. Most likely he will kill you; assuredly he will kill Dr. Wat-son. You realize you cannot stay just down the hall from the room where you where imprisoned and yet you cannot force the injured doctor to walk anymore. You cannot, in point of fact, think of a single thing to do.

And then you hear, so clearly that you look around in shock, Lian's voice saying, "You must hide."

There is a brief moment where you feel the intense desire to laugh or cry, or both at the same time, because you think you are probably going insane or, maybe, you are so close to death that you can now hear ghosts, but regardless, you cannot dispute the wisdom of Lian's/your hallucination's words.

You must hide, although he will eventually find you—he always finds you—it will buy you time, and you could use a fairly extensive amount of time. Time to think. To plan. To rest.

But how are you going to do all of this? You know that there is a small, hollow space beneath the stairs and you know that if you do, somehow, get down there you will not be able to go much further than that.

If you lay the doctor down and pulled him, you would most likely injure his head—and you have hurt him enough as it is—and, moreover, you are almost certain you cannot drag him with one good wrist anyway.

Thinking again of Lian, you remember how you often carried her on your back when she was small and you think maybe you can do something similar with the doctor. But first he must be in an upright position.

"Doctor Wat-son," you hiss. "You must stand up for moment."

There is no response. What can you say that will work? You remember him talking about Holmes, the one he feels_ plong jai rak _for and you have an idea that makes you feel even more guilty than usual. But you must try something.

"Dr. Wat-son, you must stand up, Holmes needs you to stand up." You think that perhaps your idea is working because the doctor makes a small moan. Taking that as an encouraging sign, you continue, "Holmes needs you to stand up right now!"

And you slip your good arm under his shoulders and try to tug him upward. Pain jolts through your back when you do so, but you hear him mumble something that sounds like, "I'm 'wake, Holmes, gimme a moment b'fore…game's afoot," and that you do not understand, but you continue murmuring, "Holmes needs you, you must stand up, please stand up."

Finally the two of you manage to get him somewhat upright while leaning against the wall and so despite the pain that wracks your form, you maneuver yourself under his chest, place his arms over your shoulders, with both of your hands clutching his arms tightly. Your left wrist has begun to feel as though it is wrenching off of your arm and his weight on your back is blazing agony, but nevertheless you feel exhaustedly giddy. You are just short enough that the position works—you can drag him down the steps now, without his head bumping.

This is easier said than done, of course; you stumble and nearly plunge down the steps, ending up landing hard on your knees and sending shocks of pain through your body.

"I. Will. No. Give. In," you mutter to yourself and when you find that you are unable to stand again, you try to start down the steps on your knees, the doctor's head on your shoulder, his body dragging behind, only to find that you trip on your skirt and nearly fall again. So you must stand up. You bite your injured lip to concentrate on a different pain than the one in your back and somehow you manage to stand, the metallic taste of blood in your mouth. It seems like minutes of agony as you make your way down the steps and every second you are waiting for _him_ to come out of his first floor room and catch you.

He does not come from his room and you manage to make it down the steps. Once at the bottom, before your energy gives out completely, you open the door to the small cubby and pull Dr. Watson inside. And then you fall over, almost on top of the doctor, and lay there panting.

"You must get up," the small voice that sounds like your sister whispers. _Wonderful_, you think. _Leert!__ Exhausted, in house of murderer, and going mad. _

You do not want to get up, you are not sure, in fact, that you can. But the door to your hiding place is wide open and you really should close it…

_Lian, give me strength_, you say to yourself, and then you crawl over and shut the door to your hiding space tight. Once that is finished, you are once more alone in the dark—how is it you are always alone in the dark?—and you move over to the doctor. You make certain that he is breathing and then you let yourself collapse next to him. You tell yourself you are staying near him to better take care of him, but you know, deep down, you also like the comforting warmth he emits and the sound of his breathing, letting you know that you are _not_ all alone.

You are tired, your stomach has turned into a small stone inside you that occasionally warbles that it is hungry, your wrist is enough to make you burst into tears except that you cannot afford for him to hear you cry, and you feel wet warmth dripping down your back again. All of this is meaningless, so long as the doctor survives, but you are worried. You sincerely mean to protect this last person who has been kind to you, but you are not sure if you will have the strength to do so.

And then you hear it. A very real voice—not the whisperings of your conscience that sound like your sister—in fact, _his_ very real voice, yelling out, "Mira, I am coming for my night cap!"

He does not yet know you are not in your room because he is yelling loud enough for you to hear him if you were still trapped in the small dungeon. Nevertheless, you shiver when you hear him thump up the stairs above you, sending dirt and dust sprinkling down on you, and you move closer to the doctor, putting your hand on his, grimly waiting for _him_ to discover that you are gone.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note**: The first part of this chapter is in third person, although it centers around _him_. I'm glad you have stuck with me so far--the climax is coming, I promise. And I'm glad you all seem to like Samira--I rahter like her, myself. Thank you for your reviews! :)

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**Third Person/A. Crawford**

Alexander Crawford practically bounded up the stairs toward his captives, a smirk upon his corpulent face. He hoped that the doctor, Mira's failed knight in shining armor, was awake—he would enjoy his nightcap ever so more if he had a witness—especially an _unwilling_ witness.

At that thought, he felt sweat trickle down his brow and he ran a hand through his damp hair. He always sweated right before, and naturally during, his liaisons with his women. _Especially_ Mira. Inevitably he had grown tired of her predecessors, but he really did not think he would get tired of her.

As he walked down the hallway toward his pleasure room, for that was how he thought of it, he considered calling for Amos. Mira always became quite frantic when there were _two_ of them, and besides, the doctor had proved himself to be quite resilient and might attempt to put up another fight. Crawford preferred to do the hitting rather than be hit—he had once shot his boxing instructor in the leg for daring to strike him in the face.

That is not to say that Crawford was not capable of fighting, if he had too—he was more than sufficient in that regard, even greatly skilled, but like any coward he preferred if the person he was striking was smaller, weaker, and preferably unable to fight back.

All things considered, however, Mira's attempted violence upon his person always managed to amuse him—he purposefully kept the girl half-starved so that she was not a danger to him. Only once had she drawn blood and that had been the night she had seen her sister's body. Crawford smiled at the memory and halted in front of the door, putting his key in the lock and turning it.

"Hello Mira, my sweet," he began, but the words halted before they were across his lips.

He had one thought before he tore into the room; 'my whore is gone.'

--

**Samira**

You know he has found that you are gone and that Amos is dead because you hear an enraged scream from upstairs and then heavy footsteps moving up and down the hall. He is looking for you in every room, you realize. Soon, inevitably, he will find you.

You despise being helpless—which is the usual state you are forced to be in—and so you feel around the small hideaway with your fingers. If this were a dime novel from America—like the ones your last master occasionally gave you and you learned how to read and speak English from—there would be a large metal pipe or some other weapon miraculously in the room.

Sadly, you do not find any type of pipe or firearm in the room, but you do feel an exposed nail head sticking out of the floor. It is not the miracle weapon you hoped for, but it is better than nothing and so you use your right hand with its sore fingers to begin to pull at it. More doors slam upstairs and you hear crashes and thumps as furniture is thrown over.

You continue pulling at the nail. It has a large, flat head and is already protruding from the uneven floor boards. You worry the nail, using the space between the head and the floor for leverage, wiggling it back and forth with your right thumb and pointer finger. You do not use your left hand—there is no point in hurting that wrist even more.

Soon enough the tips of your fingers are bleeding again and your nails are broken. You continue using your thumb and switch to your middle finger. If it does not come loose soon you will try and pull it out with your _teeth_.

You hear him stomp down the steps angrily and a cobweb breaks free and floats down onto your head. "I know you are still in the house, Mira!" he bellows. "You could not have gotten far."

It is then, in your moment of anxiety while listening to him, that the nail pulls free. If you could, you would scream in triumph. Instead you squeeze the doctor's hand.

It is not much, but you have a nail. It is three inches long and you test the end of it—yes, it is sharp. If _he_ finds you—when he finds you—you must be ready to attack. You cannot stay hidden forever, and he is coming.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note**: Time to update again--I feel rather quite exhausted but once I get the urge to write nothing can be done to stop me. :) This next chapter is violent and has some foul language, though there's nothing rated over T. As always, I appreciate all of your comments more than you can know. Thanks a ton. :)

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**Third Person/Crawford**

Crawford is not sure which rankles him more—that Mira escaped again, right under his nose, that she has managed to spirit away the doctor, or that she has killed Amos, a trusted employee. He has no remorse for the man himself, only anger that he will have to find a replacement. He is thinking that he will kill the girl, slowly, after she watches the doctor die and after he has raped her.

He careens around the bottom floor, has rifled through every room, looked through every closet. Surely she has not made it outside? And then he considers the one place he hasn't looked; the cupboard under the stairs. Crawford collects his pistol from his bedroom and approaches the staircase, throwing open the door in its side and pointing his gun in the dark cubby. "Come out and I may not kill—"

Crawford ends his statement with a shriek as Samira Sakda plunges what feels like a knife into his hand.

"Bitch," he snarls, but she has already leapt out of the closet and stabbed him again, sticking him right below the collarbone, and suddenly he is struggling to keep the gun. "Whore."

Mira reaches for the gun with her right hand and pushes the nail further into his shoulder with her left, but he reaches for her blindly and manages to get a hold of her left wrist and yank her off of him. Her face goes white as he tightens his grip on her arm, but she seems determined to make another try for the weapon and so he throws her as hard as he can across the room.

A gilded mirror crashes to the floor as Mira slams into the wall, the shimmering pieces of it raining onto the floor around her. Crawford wheels his gun on her, now that he realizes she is more of a threat than he anticipated, and he is pleased to see that she is slightly dazed. On to business, then: Crawford lets out another whimper as he yanks the nail out of his shoulder, but afterward he smiles, all predator, and reaches into the cabinet, grabs the doctor's arm, and yanks him out of the hiding place. Dr. Watson groans.

"_Mai_," Mira cries out pathetically. "No, _I_ am one to be punished!"

She said something similar when Crawford had first talked of selling her sister to a low class brothel and he laughs.

"Oh you will be, Mira, you will be." He gestures with his gun, backing away from the doctor. "Get over there by him."

She tries to stand up, stumbles, and then crawls toward her inert companion, putting her small body in front of his. It is obvious that she plans to die rather than see him injured. And then it dawns on Crawford.

"My God, he's your lover. Of _course_. As soon as I was out of the room you spread your legs for him, hoping he would take care of you. I should have known all your virtue, all your _indignation,_ was an act." His comment has the desired effect—Mira gasps, her pretty face twisted in shock and anger.

"How—how dare you." Her voice is beyond cold, but it is her eyes that put Crawford into a paroxysm of anger.

Those eyes cut right through him; he had a _gun_ pointed at her face, he had the upper hand, he had _won_, yet still he failed to notice any fear. Mira was looking into Crawford's eyes and he had the uneasy feeling that she was seeing right through him. _I know you_, her look said. _I know your kind and what you want and you are less than an insect to me. _

Crawford flinches before he can help it—those eyes burned him, went through him. So he did the only thing a man like him could do; he strode up to her and hit her, and felt great satisfaction when she looked up at him with a red-purple bruise forming across her skinny face.

"I own you. You are my property." Crawford takes a deep breath, trying to maintain control. He should not let a slave upset him so. "Quite the avenging angel, aren't you, my dear? Too bad the end result will be the same."

He keeps the gun trained on the doctor so that she will not fight him and then he grabs her by the hair, pulling her bun the rest of the way out. He has a fistful of her long, black hair and he uses it to pull her away from the doctor, then shoves her to the ground.

Her hair falls in front of her face like a curtain, so long that it goes down to her waist. Crawford leers at her, kicks the doctor to make certain he is unconscious, thrilling at the indignant, angry response he gets from Mira, and then he is on top of her.

Mira struggles underneath him but he clips her head lightly with the butt of the pistol and she stills. It is as this point that he tears the dress off of her. He grins wolfishly as he next removes her cotton petticoat so that she is lying only in her camisole and bloomers. And bloomers, he knows from experience, are easy enough to take off; though he usually made sure his girls didn't wear any. It was that meddler, Miss Fairchild, who provided the bloomers for Mira and he will be extremely satisfied to get them off of her. After all, the girl has a deep hatred of being naked. He reaches to pull down her white bloomers but she stirs and realizes he is on top of her and then thrashes, her knee managing to hit him directly in a quite vulnerable place.

Crawford rolls of off her moaning, the gun still in hand but she looks wildly around the room, sees the shards of broken mirror, and dives for one large, diamond shaped piece. He sees her and lurches to his feet and tackles her just as her hand closes around the shard and she stabs her second makeshift weapon into him as hard as she can before the gun he is holding goes off.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note**: I myself am dying of suspense as I had no idea where this was going originally but apparently I am channeling the spirits of Holmes, Watson, and Samira so that I must type quickly what they whisper to me. Either that or I am having one heck of a spark of creativity. LOL. :) Here is the next chapter, I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for reading and responding! Oh, by the way, props to any of you who spot the original lead off to the story in here. :)

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**Watson**

A gunshot exploded nearby and roused me from the place where there had been only silence to a place where I was slowly becoming aware of pain. The gunshot had penetrated into my subconscious, that was true, but it was Samira's yelp of pain that fully roused me. I moaned and opened my eyes.

Samira was lying on the floor, half naked, her face quite literally drained of color save for a large bruise on her cheek, and there was a small red stain spreading on the side of her camisole.

_Good god_, I thought, _she's been shot_! In that same second I looked her in the face, focusing on her vibrant amber eyes and I saw that she was completely unafraid of death—perhaps even welcomed it—except that she looked over at me worriedly and met my gaze.

Silently, she said something to me. My vision cleared and I saw her lips form the words, _Promise me you will no die_.

"What did you say to me?" The American asked, mistaking her silent entreaty as a whispered denunciation. I gave her a slight nod meaning _I promise_, and she looked back at the villain, raising her chin.

I had to get up. I had to help her. Although my ribs were painful enough to make me gasp and my head felt as though it was merely a bundle of electrified nerves and pulp, I got up onto my knees and managed not to fall into a comatose state.

I could dimly hear, over the ringing in my ears, the brute ranting. We had been obviously been recaptured, my slow thought process brilliantly deduced as I silently moved forward, and it was _entirely_ my fault. I would never forgive myself for collapsing after we escaped the room and thus securing our fate. I did wonder, briefly, how we had managed to make it downstairs. She should have left without me, but I was determined to try and make up for my mistake.

I scrutinized the American—he was holding a gun in his right hand, his left shoulder had a shard of glass of some kind protruding from it, he was bleeding extensively, and lucky for me, he seemed to have eyes only for Samira.

"Die, Mira, knowing that the doctor will be next, knowing that you have failed another person."

I got to my feet and, before my equilibrium had a chance to fail me, I lunged for him just as he fired the gun. The bullet discharged into the floor and the American's fist slammed into my jaw; I fell to my knees, Samira's anguished cry in my ears. Faintly, I felt blood drip down the back of my neck and then something sharp at my throat and I realized he had pulled the shard out of his shoulder and was going to slit my throat with it.

He yanked my head back with my hair, and I fell back against his legs, almost fainting again and thus securing my death by sagging onto the cutting edge.

I realized that it would be so easy to give in to the comfort of the silent, blind darkness, but I think of Holmes and remember my promise, so I concentrate hard and attempt to conjure up everything that has recently transpired so that I shall stay awake and by extension, hopefully, stay alive…

But I have now remembered everything that I can and still the piece of glass rests on my skin and I feel a single bead of blood drip down my throat. Just as I am certain I am finished, the door is thrown open and I hear a familiar, frenzied voice shout, "Not a move, Crawford, or I shall shoot to kill!"

I crane my neck forward despite the danger to see if it is really—can it be—it is Holmes. _Holmes_. His always pristine clothes are wrinkled, his bright grey eyes are wild, and he has my gun pointed unwaveringly at the American.

"Holmes," I say hoarsely, ashamed at the weak way his name comes out.

"Watson," Holmes replies, and his voice is filled with a mixture of horror, anger, and what sounds suspiciously like tenderness.

Although the man, apparently named Crawford, jerks my head back once again and keeps the knife in place, I am filled with an extremely inappropriate contentment. If I must die, than I am glad Holmes is here.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: **I'm not sure how soon the next update will be, I've got stuff due for grad school so it shall greatly depend on how studious I am feeling...lol. This next chapter, yes, has violence...but it also has puppies.

Okay, okay. It doesn't have any puppies. I just feel bad constantly writing 'this has violence'. ((laughs)) Obviously, I shouldn't upload anything past midnight since my author's note's seem to get a little wonky. Anyway, thank you all of you lovely people that have been reading and reviewing! I'm sorry there aren't really any puppies. The chapter _does_ have Holmes and a bit of hurt/comfort and Samira in her undergarments, though, if those things are considered pluses for you guys... :)

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**Holmes**

The wait in the carriage was monstrous and it seemed to take at least two hours instead of thirty minutes, but finally I arrived. I instructed the driver to wait for me and I readied Watson's service revolver. I had been impatient to arrive at Crawford's estate, but once I was there, the anxiety I felt increased and my stomach fairly turned when I considered what might await me.

Although I was wary, I was not met with any confrontation on my way up the drive and to the first floor of the house. When I moved stealthily onto the porch, I hesitated momentarily, trying to discern whether it would be best to make a direct, bold approach from the front or a surreptitious entrance from the side. My impatience won out—I could not wait a moment longer to enter the house and find out about Watson. Nevertheless, I paused for a scant moment and took in a deep breath, forcibly attempting to calm myself.

When one is not in control of one's emotions, one is liable to make a mistake. I had seen this demonstrated again and again in many of my cases and yet for once I understood how it was possible to be on the verge of violence and hardly able to control it. All of my instincts were telling me Watson was in that house and so I cocked the hammer on the gun and burst in through the front entrance.

My eyes adjusted rapidly to the lantern light and I froze as I took in the scene before me. The girl off to the side of the room, her face concerned; Watson on his knees in front of the American; a gun skidded off to the side; Crawford standing over my friend, his shoulder bleeding profusely, a slice of a broken mirror in his hand. In that sliver of mirror I saw my own horror reflected back at me.

Crawford had the broken shard tight against Watson's throat. _Watson_.

"Not a move, Crawford, or I shall shoot to kill!" I barely heard my own voice as I shouted—I did not watch Crawford's response, though of course I was aware of him—and I looked at my friend.

At my yell, Watson craned forward dangerously, leaving a trail of blood on his neck, to see if I was really standing there. His head was bandaged ineffectively with a sash and I saw blood stains on the fabric in two separate places, hinting at the injuries below. Although he was on his knees, Watson seemed crooked with pain, no doubt from his ribs, and his hazel eyes had a glassy, dazed look. He saw me clearly, however.

"Holmes," he croaked hoarsely, as if he barely had the strength to say my name. To my right, the girl started.

"Watson," I replied instantly, my own voice shaking with anger, loathing, frustration, and affection. He was alive. At least he was alive.

Crawford was watching me and he jerked Watson's head back once again and kept the knife securely in place at his throat. I despaired at the emotion I had seen in Watson's eyes; steady devotion and unflinching trust.

"Release him at once." I was amazed at how detached my voice sounded, but there was anger quaking below the surface and I wished to Hell I could pull the trigger without endangering Watson when Crawford laughed at my statement.

"And be shot? You drop _your_ weapon or I will slit his throat so wide that his head will nigh fall off." At this statement he pressed down harder and a second trail of blood rolled down Watson's throat, though my brave Boswell did not so much as flinch.

"Do so," I replied coldly. "And you will be dead in a second."

Never before had my emotions so gotten the best of me, but I confess that I truly wanted to destroy this man. Not bring him to justice—_destroy_him.

"Then I guess we find ourselves at an impasse…" I could see the rodent's eyes darting back and forth as he talked, looking for escape. He seemed to have forgotten the woman in the room, and finally stared at me. "You had better move out of the doorway."

I narrowed my eyes in disdain, but he drew the shard a little further along Watson's throat and the amount of blood trickling down increased.

Warily, I took a small step to the side. "What now?" I asked with an ironic and dangerous lilt in my voice, the gun still accurately aimed for his head. I knew I had to be careful, and time my actions exactly. One misstep and… I could not think it. In truth, the loss of Watson _was_ entirely unthinkable. It would not release me from the bonds of emotion I feel; in fact, it would most probably intensify them.

"Now Dr. Watson stands up and we move toward the door. I open it, shove him forward, and then make my escape. Everybody lives."

"Somehow," I replied. "I doubt your word."

Crawford laughed and jerked Watson upward with his free hand, causing him to lurch to the side and make an even wider rivulet of blood. I could scarcely stand it, though my eyes were riveted to the sight. That my friend had been cruelly treated was then painfully evident, for he swayed and could scarcely stand, and Crawford was forced to try and help support him, the blade still in place at his throat but no longer directly touching the skin.

Just as I was pondering making a move of my own, I saw, from the corner of my eye, the woman dart forward and lunge for the gun.

She fired, hitting Crawford in the back of his thigh, the man staggered forward and Watson fell heavily to the ground.

The instant Watson was clear I fired two successive shots, and Crawford collapsed, making a heavy wheezing sound. Although I wanted to rush immediately over to my friend, I forced myself to walk over to the American and stand over him. Blood was everywhere; he was bleeding from his chest, his stomach, his shoulder, and his thigh. Still, he drew breath and I readied Watson's revolver.

"No," the man whispered, blood gurgling out his mouth. "Please." Evidently he found the promise of death in my eyes because he sneered, exposing blood-stained teeth. "It…was amusing; beating the doctor…too bad you could not spare him the pain—"

I shot him again and again until the gun clicked, all ammunition spent. Crawford breathed no more and, in truth, no longer had much of a face. Certain that there was no more danger from that quarter, I dropped on my knees beside Watson, and hurriedly wiped the blood away from his throat. Thank God, it was only a superficial cut. He limply held up his hand and I grasped it in my own.

"My dear Watson," I said. "Are you all right?"

Not perhaps, one of my most intellectual questions, but it was the one at the fore front of my mind.

"I am quite all right," he replied. He sounded like the brave, stanch man that he was, but he did not in the least sound all right. "You are not hurt?"

Trust Watson to inquire about my welfare in a moment like that. "No. Watson," I hesitated.

"Whatever you do, don't apologize," he said, a slight slur in his voice. He was so astute, knowing what I was going to say, and I felt a stab of pain that I had almost lost such a friend.

"But I _am_ sorry—"

He waved off my words with his free hand, and then winced at the movement. I furrowed my brow.

"I knew you'd find us." Watson squeezed his eyes shut at some pain, and I held his hand even tighter. "Holmes, you must be gentle with Samira. She saved my life more than once." At this assertion I glanced over at the Oriental woman, but she was pointedly looking somewhere else, trying to give us at least the semblance of privacy. "Promise me that you'll help her."

"Of course, dear fellow, but stop sounding as though you are receiving your last rites, will you? It is trying my nerves."

Watson smiled, as I knew he would. "I'm fine…just tired."

His hand went slack in mine and the sudden stillness electrified me. "Watson? Watson?"

I bent down over him and was relieved to hear that he still breathed, having merely fallen into unconsciousness. I pulled him upright and took him into my arms, planning to carry him to the carriage at once.

"I will return momentarily, miss," I said to the young woman. She nodded and I carried my friend to the cab.

I daresay the driver was not surprised to see me approach him carrying an inert form, as he had no doubt heard the gunshots, but the cabby had recognized my name when I told it to him and seemed eager to help. He held the door for me while I gently put Watson inside, lying across one of the seats. Although I knew I had to go and help the young lady, I hated to leave him in such a vulnerable state.

"Just the two of yer, then?" The cabby asked.

I shook my head. "There is a lady still inside."

I thought my statement had been a flat one, but the man apparently read something in my tone because he said, "I'll watch after 'im, Mr. 'Olmes, while yer get 'er."

I nodded and went into the house.

The young woman—Watson had called her Samira—was waiting patiently in the entryway.

"He is…well?" She asked in a small voice. I nodded and she breathed a sigh of relief. It was only then that I fully looked at the young lady and I was aghast to realize she had been beaten, her back was bloody, her wrist was broken, her side was bleeding, and worst of all, she was clad only in her undergarments.

"Oh, er, here." I hurriedly shed my Inverness cloak and held it out for her. She smiled and gratefully put it on while I looked in the opposite direction. "Can you walk?"

"I am no sure," she answered truthfully, standing. On her, my cape made a satisfactory dress, reaching almost to her ankles. She took a few steps toward me and then swooned.

I dashed forward and caught her, lifting her light weight quite easily. When I had her in my arms, I could feel most of her bones quite easily and it was apparent that she was at least half starved. It was a wonder that she had any strength at all.

"Sorry," she whispered, and I replied that it was no great inconvenience.

"Pardon my rudeness, I meant to introduce myself earlier," I said as I stepped through the front door. "I am Sherlock Holmes."

"I am Samira Sakda…" I felt her eyes search my face. "I am glad that Dr. Wat-son has you for friend."

I felt slightly uncomfortable at the woman's words, but I recalled Watson saying that I should be gentle with her and that she had saved his life, so I still felt relatively warm toward the girl, especially as I had seen her bravery with my own eyes.

After I had both injured parties lying on either side of the cab, I began to get out to give my instructions to the driver to take us to the closest hospital when I felt a small hand on my arm. I looked toward Samira, who had sat up, looking alarmed.

"Where are we headed?" she asked.

"Straight to the hospital." I frowned when the girl shook her head emphatically.

"You can no take him somewhere so open," she said hurriedly. "He—Mr. Craw-ford—was no alone…" She winced and clutched her side, barely able to stay awake. "In his…trade. Craw-ford had carrier for messages, so his partner now knows he had recaptured me and taken Dr. Wat-son, and when he finds his partner is dead then he will come after me." She looked abjectly miserable. "And now…maybe he will come for Wat-son, too. Is best if he is no in public place."

I would have questioned the girl further but she finally succumbed to her exhaustion and fainted. I once again caught her before she hit the floor and replaced her lightly on the seat across from Watson.

My questions were going to have to wait, so I told the driver to take us to Baker Street and then climbed into the wagon, sitting on the floor between Watson and Samira. In the positions we were all in, both of them could lie on the seats and I could make certain that neither of them fell during the bumpy drive. Alone with my thoughts and my worries, the ride back home was a long and wearisome one.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note**: So I guess I'm not being that studious. lol. I hope you all like this next chapter--and the whole story, for that matter--for it was somewhat difficult for me. Anyway, no violence that I can recall in this next. A bit of bad language.

Thank you guys for reading and I really really really appreciate all of you who have reviewed! :) :)

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**Holmes**

A jolting carriage ride is not the best circumstances in which to dress wounds, so I had not had a chance to closely ascertain the extent of the damage Watson had suffered and I could scarcely wait to get him tended to. I was already regretting my decision to go to Baker Street—what if I was needlessly endangering my friend—but I knew that if my suspicion about Crawford's illicit activities were correct; it was inevitable that men like him had a partner. A partner that did the majority of the dirty work, while Crawford provided the money. Thus Samira was likely telling the truth about the peril she and Watson could be in as men in that line of work definitely would not want anyone alive that could endanger their thriving business.

The carriage finally jerked to a stop in front of 221B, and the cabby opened the door. "I'll 'elp yer carry the man in, shall I?"

I nodded. Although I could have managed Watson on my own, I knew it would be less jarring if two of us helped get him up the steps. The cabdriver, who introduced himself as Will, thus helped me carry my friend upstairs and into our rooms. We lowered him onto the couch and I made certain his head was propped with a pillow.

He muttered something and thrashed out blindly and I bent over him to pat his arm, murmuring, "Easy, old fellow, you're home."

Watson quieted at the sound of my voice, but he began shivering intensely, so I pulled off his shoes and covered him with one of the light blankets we kept in the sitting room. In the light, he looked dreadfully pale.

I walked to the top of the steps. "Mrs. Hudson!" I cried. I had need of her to fetch a doctor while I made certain that my Boswell was in no immediate danger.

"Need 'elp carryin' the girl?"

I shook my head. "No, but thank you."

I paid the driver his fee and gave him a little extra. As I walked down the steps with him, Mrs. Hudson met us at the doorway.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes? Did you find Dr. Watson?"

I nodded curtly. "He is injured. I would be grateful, Mrs. Hudson, if you would fetch a doctor—"

"Of course, sir," she responded, her voice taking on a familiar, slightly maternal, worried tone.

That taken care of, I followed the cabby outside to his carriage so that I could carry Samira upstairs. Undoubtedly she would need medical assistance as well.

"Er, sir? Seems the girl's gone," the coach driver said.

I strode to the open door and stared at the empty inside. "Damn and blast."

--

**Samira**

You wake up alone in a small, dark place and for a minute you are terrified, but then you see Mr. Holmes and another man carrying the doctor inside a house.

Dr. Wat-son will be safer without you, you are sure of this, and so you will depart. Wetness brims in your eyes—you always seem to lose what you care about—and you feel your heart twisting at the thought of parting from him, never seeing his face.

It is true that, really, you barely know him, but Dr. Wat-son is kind, you are sure of that, and his soft eyes hold the same gentleness that Lian's had. But you will go now, quickly—you must—because if you do not, it will be just like what happened to Miss Fairchild all over again.

How is it you have become responsible for the loss of so many good things? You lost your mother because Shing could not afford the medicine for her (you should have hidden the money so he did not gamble it away), you lost Miss Fairchild and your home with her (you should have never gone to her), and most bitterly you have lost Lian, your sister who you are still bound to with irrevocable heart (how could you not protect her?).

No one else will die because of you. Not Dr. Wat-son, and not his _plong jai rak _friend, Mr. Holmes.

You crawl onto the floor of the coach and force yourself to stand, although your side is beginning to hurt nearly as much as your wrist and back do. For a moment, you are stricken with regret that you are still wearing Mr. Holmes' cape—whatever else you have been forced to be, you are not a thief—and yet you have no desire to walk through the streets without clothes.

Deciding that you can return the cloak later, leave it on the doorstep or such like, you totter away from the coach, walking as quickly as you can.

It is undeniable that you are weak and will not make it far. Still, you have to attempt to get away, although you certainly have nowhere to go. You _must_ ensure that the doctor and his friend remain safe, you can do that much—you have failed in everything else.


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note:** This is a very short chapter but nevertheless I hope you like it. I really love it that many of you read and review afterward--it is what spur me on. Thanks for reading! :)

PS) The last line of the story is an actual Thai saying. I'm going to be putting them in now and then in Samira's POV, so tell me if you don't get them. This one is easy, though.

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**Samira**

Walking on the street wearing only your undergarments and a cloak—even if the cloak is buttoned—is not something that makes you feel comfortable. Not that much of anything makes you feel content any more—comfort was Lian curled up against you, your hand on her hair to soothe her to sleep like a replacement mother. Still, all things considered, you wish you had more clothes on.

You snort at this thought—if you are going to wish, why not wish that your sister and your mother had never died, that your step-father had not sold you, that you had never been forced to move from Siam to China, from China to America, from America to England? Why not un-wish the past?

Stumbling a little, you realize you cannot go any further and you look around for some place you can sleep. Across the cobblestone road you see a doorway with an awning over the small porch in front of it. You pull the cloak tighter around yourself and walk over to it, lying down and curling into a ball.

The stone beneath you is hard, but you are so glad that you do not have to sleep another night with your wrist shackled. Speaking of wrists; the pain is better, so much so that you know it has gone numb.

Hopefully it will not turn greenish black and fall off—you think of Bao Yu, a girl _he_ bought, whose shackle gave her a sore and then her arm went numb and her hand turned green-black and she died.

You stifle your thoughts before they continue; you have seen much horror and you do not wish for it to dance in front of your eyes like it often does before, after, or during your sleep.

It is hard to tell how long you have lain there because suddenly you are jerking awake at the feeling of someone touching your shoulder. Automatically, you kick out with both feet and the figure standing over you loses balance and falls.

You prepare yourself for the worst. Somehow you knew your small respite would not last; always you seem to escape from the tiger and run into the crocodile.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's note: **Not so short this time. :) Thanks for sticking with me and for all the reviews! :) They really do help inspire. :)

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**Holmes**

I suppose I should have expected a young woman who has been so sorely mistreated to be somewhat alarmed upon being awoken by a hand on her shoulder. In truth, I did not believe that she was in any shape to put up a struggle.

"Miss Samira," I said as I rose to my feet. "It is Sherlock Holmes."

The girl, who had pressed her back up against the door, relaxed slightly. She did not, however, look particularly overjoyed to see me. I admit I was feeling a trifle impatient with her myself—I would much rather have been at Watson's bedside than tramping around in the dark for a lost girl.

"Why did you come here?" Her voice was as soft as always but there was a tiny bit of annoyance in her tone.

"I should think that would be obvious." She remained silent and so I continued. "You left the cab without so much as a word and disappeared off into the night injured and alone. Hence, I came looking for you."

"I…thank you for your concern." She did not, in the slightest, sound thankful. She sounded dismayed. And worried.

My thin thread of patience evaporated. "Ah, now you thank me? I must say, Miss Samira, I would be more inclined to believe your gratitude if you refrained from sounding as though my presence is as appealing to you as a rabid dog. You are the one who acted unexpectedly, strolling off into the night, forcing me to come after you. I had to leave Watson, and if—"

My tirade came to a full stop when I saw that Miss Samira Sakda had tears running down her cheeks.

"I am sorry to cause problem for you," she murmured. "It is for Dr. Wat-son, and you, that I leave. If I am no near him, he is safer. You both are."

I stared down at her, my anger fading into something that felt uncomfortably like shame, and took into account how wretched she looked sitting there shivering. "You mean to tell me you acted out of concern for Watson?"

"Yes."

I stifled a sigh. I had been harsh toward the young woman and really I knew my temper had not flared up so quickly because of her desertion, but because of my concern for my biographer. And here the young lady was telling me that she was concerned for him as well. "In that case, I understand why you left. I do not approve, however. You really must come back with me."

She still was hesitating and I tried to discern the reason. Was she really that concerned she would be putting Watson in jeopardy? Or perhaps— "There is a lady—our landlady—who resides at the residence as well. You will not be…un-chaperoned."

For the first time that I had seen, Miss Samira smiled. "That is no reason for why I must leave… It is too dangerous for me to be near Dr. Wat-son." She paused and her eyes were soft. "Thank you for everything. Take care of doctor."

She stood, evidentially preparing to leave, but the movement made her grimace and she looked extremely faint so I hurriedly took hold of her elbow.

"Miss Samira, you are in no condition to traipse about like a gypsy. Furthermore, I promised Watson I would look after you and that is far easier to do when I know where you are. Your intentions may be noble, but you have cost me precious time in intercepting you and you really must stay nearby until this…matter…is taken care of."

"I did no mean to-to be trouble…"

I heard the wobble in her voice and checked my impatience—how I longed to check on Watson—adding, in a gentler tone, "And I did not mean to be rude. I am merely—"

"Worried," she finished. I gave her an uncomfortable glance and was irked to see that she had smiled slightly.

"I was going to say, 'tired,'" I replied, but I was perceptive enough to know that she did not believe me.

"I do no wish to go with you and put you both in danger."

"I am afraid, miss, that I have no time to argue. At the least come back with me and have your injuries administered to," I cajoled, hoping she would take the bait.

She looked at me for a long moment. "Are you able to protect doctor?"

Her question was not meant as a rebuke, I knew, but all the same, I cringed. I had not protected him from Crawford, had not prevented his injuries...

"I am able and more than willing," I finally responded, my voice cold and serious.

"All right," she replied. "I will go with you. Dr. Wat-son…he is well?"

"He was still sleeping last I saw him…" I hoped she did not notice the strain in my voice and would mistake any crack for hoarseness. "When I left, the doctor had just arrived."

After I was certain she was able, we began the walk back to Baker Street. I admit my mind, normally alert, was entirely focused on my worry about Watson so Miss Samira's next statement not only jerked me out of my thoughts, but it surprised me as well.

"I do no know name of…Craw-ford's…partner. I never saw him."

Her voice was sincere and I was certain she was telling the truth. _Perhaps_, I thought, _now would be the best time to clear up a few matters_. "Miss Samira…as difficult as this might be, I need to hear your story."

"My…story?"

"Yes."

"What part of story? When I met Dr. Wat-son?"

"I mean everything. From the beginning. From the start of your…relationship with Crawford." I made certain my voice was firm, but gentle. "One never knows what might be relevant to a case."

"A case?"

"I am a detective," I replied. "Although an unofficial one."

"If I tell you…" She seems worried and I discerned that she was afraid of what I might think of her and what I might say.

"I shall be the soul of discretion."

She took a deep breath. "Then I _will_ tell you my story—but I think maybe I start with how I came here." Although she had been hesitant to tell me, her voice while narrating the tale was admirably strong. "I was born in Siam. My true father died when I was baby; I know nothing of him. I grow up with my Mother, who tried to be good, but she was as willow is—bending with slightest pressure. She married, despite warnings from neighbors, Chinese man named Shing who was said to be gambler. When I was four, my mother gave birth to my half-sister, Lian." At the name of her sister, despite her strength, she faltered. "Lian was my half sister by blood, but we were…close. Step-father Shing was indeed gambler and always we were poor. In time, Mother died and Shing sold us to repay debt he was in."

"How old were you?" I could not help but ask.

"I was ten and Lian was six." Apparently she caught my dark expression—the world is cruel—because she said, in a small voice, "You do no understand. It was normal."

"And that, Miss Samira, makes it worse," I replied gently.

"If he had no sold us, he would have abandoned us in hills. You think it better if we both died of ex-pose-ure or starved to death?" Miss Samira spoke in a voice that instantly let me know that she had wondered that same thing many times.

I awkwardly patted the young woman's arm and she gave me a grateful, surprised smile, but I merely said, "Pray continue."

What sort of solace could I offer? I am not the one that generally comforts the women and my longing for Watson intensified. But Watson was not available—which was my own fault—and so I prepared myself for a lot of arm patting and readied my sympathetic—and admittedly evaluative—ear.


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note: **Don't worry, we're getting back to poor Watson, slowly but surely. No violence int his chapter, a bit of language from a grumpy Holmes but that's all. :) My eternal thanks to everyone who reads me and everyone who reviews me! It means a lot. :)

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**Holmes**

I fear I was keeping a rather too brisk pace for the young lady in my eagerness to return home and discover the extent of Watson's injuries. In any case, Miss Samira began to stumble and I stopped, intending to let her take a breath. When I looked over at her I saw that she had become deadly pale and was shivering. Shock, was my first impression.

Before I could open my mouth to ask if she was well, she collapsed, fully and suddenly, as though she had been a puppet and someone had cut the strings holding her upright. I lunged and managed to catch her before she hit the ground.

She opened her eyes part of the way. "I was…going…to return it."

"What were you going to return?" I thought of the possibilities of what she meant—had she stolen something from Crawford and that was the real reason she was in danger?

"Your…cloak. I would no…have kept…it." Her eyes closed and though I tried, she would not be roused.

I felt, somewhat deservedly, like a judgmental ass. The young woman was entirely exhausted from her own ill-advised self sacrifice and yet she was worried that I thought she was stealing my Inverness. Admittedly I am rather fond of the cape, but I had not even thought about it, naturally being concerned with finding her and returning to Watson. I picked her up in my arms and though I had lifted her before, I was still taken aback that she weighed about the same as a child. I hurried back to Baker Street, moving as fast as I could without actually running.

I rang the bell when I got there, not wanting to try and maneuver the door open with the lady in my arms and I heard someone—assuredly my landlady—stomping down the steps.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door. "Oh!" She gasped when she saw the young woman in my arms and I brusquely brushed by her, heading up the steps.

"The doctor is still here?" I asked.

"…yes."

"Has he finished with Watson?"

"No, he's in your room, sir, we moved him. We thought he should be in a quiet place and your room was closest…" She could hold it in no longer. "Mr. Holmes—you are carrying an unconscious girl."

"Sound deduction," I replied as I hit the last step and walked into the sitting room. I glanced over, an uncomfortable tightness in my chest—my bedroom door was shut. Sighing, I sat the girl on the couch. She didn't stir.

I made to go into my room when Mrs. Hudson, who had followed me up the steps, put her hand on my shoulder.

"He said he was not to be disturbed while examining Dr. Watson"

I frowned and moved toward the door anyway and heard Mrs. Hudson pointedly clear her throat.

"He should be almost done now, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh very well, I'll wait," I snapped, throwing myself into an armchair and glancing again at my bedroom door.

Mrs. Hudson moved over to the couch. "Is she cold? Should I fetch some extra blankets?"

"That would be kind of you, Mrs. Hudson, but something that would be even more helpful is if you had any spare clothing lying around."

"For what?"

"She will have need of some clothing—I doubt she'd enjoy walking around clad only in my Inverness. Do you think you have any clothes you could spare?" I asked this earnestly, not anticipating Mrs. Hudson's shrill response.

"She doesn't have any _clothes_ on…? My word, Mr. Holmes! Who…? Why…?"

Obviously some sort of explanation was necessary. "Dr. Watson attempted to help this girl and that is when he was attacked. She has…" I thought of my promise to Miss Samira to be circumspect. "Been horribly ill treated and nearly starved by a man who held her as his captive." This was entirely true. "Her clothes were torn prior to the escape."

"The poor dear." Mrs. Hudson, dare I say it, looked almost satisfied that she could add another injured bird to her flock. Not that she enjoyed someone being ill, not at all, our landlady merely enjoyed taking care of someone. Underneath her bustling and serious exterior, she is something of a soft touch.

"The doctor said nothing of Watson's condition?" Blasted doctors. Other than Watson, of course.

"No, he didn't, but I'm sure Dr. Watson will be fine," she said gently. I swallowed, clenched my hands into a fist to keep them from trembling, and gave a nod. Weakness is not something I enjoy, to put it lightly, so I daresay I was extremely uncomfortable as she scrutinized my face. I would, however, go through many more emotional trials if it would only make Watson well again.

After a few minutes of waiting, I finally stood, deciding that the doctor could go to the devil—I was going to see Watson regardless of what he said! As I moved toward my bedroom, the door opened and an unfamiliar doctor strode out.

"How is he?"

It seemed like there was an unnecessarily extensive pause before he answered.


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note**: I actually wasn't trying to be sadistic with the wait for this update, I merely had to finish school essays first. Seriously, I had a 25 page assignment due. ((dodges thrown tomatoes)) Eek! ((splat)) Okay, maybe I deserved that...

Really, I am sorry, though! :) Thanks for sticking with me anyway--assuming, hopefully, that you have. :) Anyway, loves and hugs and skittles to all of you who have read and reviewed! :)

* * *

**Holmes**

"Hello, sir, I don't believe we have met. I am Dr. Thomas Michener. You must be 'Holmes.'" The way he said it informed me knew that Watson had either asked for me or had at least spoken my name, and I felt an uncomfortable twinge in my chest.

"Sherlock Holmes," I replied in a rather churlish voice. "I'm sure it's a pleasure to meet you and all that, but if we are done with the pleasantries, _how the devil is Watson doing?_"

Dr. Michener looked from me to Mrs. Hudson, and then blinked. "Dr. Watson has quite a severe concussion and should be under close watch for the next few days, lest he hemorrhage. He has two head injuries, which I have put a pad of lint on and bound—the bandages should stay on for several days and of course be changed twice a day. I've left some supplies on the table along with some powders he should have three times a day if he turns feverish and also some morphine for the pain; I truly believe he shall need it, although I have already given him his first dose. Above all, I recommend rest."

I was fairly twitching. "Yes, but…_How—Is_—_He_?" I enunciated each word quite clearly to make my point. "Will he… Will he be all right?"

Again, Dr. Michener blinked at me—he was more and more reminding me of a hoot owl with his massive, winking eyes, except that I was not sure he warranted the intelligence said animal is supposed to possess. "I am fairly certain he shall recover fully…"

While he paused, I focused on his use of the word _fairly _and tried to suppress the winged form of fear flying through my breast.

"If, that is, he doesn't re-injure himself or succumb to a fever. You are no doubt aware that the patient has a serious concussion. At the worst, he could re-injure himself and end up with cranial hemorrhaging that could, depending on the area, kill him or leave him comatose." Dr. Michener took a breath. "I nearly forgot—his ribs are certainly bruised and one or two may be broken. The only thing to do for that is to keep his chest wrapped tightly and attempt to suppress the coughing that will follow. I left some syrup. Above all, rest is the best treatment for him, lots of rest, but he isn't out of danger. I shall come and check on him again tomorrow."

"How serious is the danger?"

"I'd say someone should sit up with him. I'll be leaving now." The owl began to take his leave of us.

"There is another patient," Mrs. Hudson said in a rather more polite voice than I would have used. "The young lady on the couch."

"Ah." He walked over to her and blinked down at her. Honestly, the man needed to see an ophthalmologist. "Do you know the extent of her injuries?"

"I believe her left wrist is broken, she's malnutritioned, she has been lashed across her back, and her side has been grazed by a gunshot."

"Dear me," Mrs. Hudson breathed.

"I shall have to undress the lady for treatment, then," the doctor said in a warning tone of voice.

"I will be inside my room with Watson," I replied. "Let me know the extent of her injuries."

"I am going to stay with the girl as a chaperon, doctor, but do let me fetch a night gown to put the girl in, before you start," Mrs. Hudson said.

The doctor nodded and I finally was allowed to cross the room toward my dear Watson, who was not yet out of danger. Another strange pang struck me as I thought of losing him—but no, he would not die. I would not, _could not_, allow him to die. I walked into my room, my heart feeling heavy, nearly unable to take a breath.

The gas lights were dim and I had to squint to make out the still form lying on my bed piled under several covers. I tried to hold back the fear I felt squirming along my spine, the feelings trying to control me, the unfamiliar chaos in my mind. God help me, if anyone else attempted to hurt him _they_ would die just as surely as Crawford had. A dangerous sentiment, perhaps, but a true one. Never had I been so utterly enraged and yet fearful. Naturally I was livid, but concurrently, I was also immensely afraid of losing Watson. Without him, what would be left? There would be no joy in music, in cases, in _life_, if Watson died.

Feeling both of these extremes at once was a horrible sensation and I thought that if women were indeed more emotional than men, it is no wonder they are more prone to hysterics. Shaking my head to clear it, I pulled the lone chair in the room next to the side of the bed and looked down at my motionless friend. "Watson," I whispered. "I'm so sorry, old fellow."

Watson didn't move. Not even a twitch. He had bandaging wrapped around his forehead and another bandage that went under his chin and over the top of his head to keep the other tight. There were patches of plaster covering several nicks on his face, his knuckles were wrapped, and his skin seemed unnaturally pale even in the dim lighting. As I surveyed Watson, he was breathing raggedly and suddenly let out a fierce cough. I sat down instantly and grasped his hand. The poor man had been alone, overpowered, and utterly failed by me—the one man who was supposed to safeguard him.

I felt my stomach tighten—it was evident that he had been fiercely attacked, treated without mercy, and I swore to myself that I would treat everyone who had anything to do with his condition in that same way.

Another cough startled me from my thoughts and I stood, heading over to the table, looking for the cough suppressant. Finding the syrup, I readied the appropriate dose into a dropper Dr. Michener had provided. All the jolting that the coughing caused him could not be good for his injuries. I sat back down in my chair and scooted closer, propping Watson's head and neck up with my left arm. I used the right to insert the dropped into his mouth and slowly give him the medicine. He swallowed, but then began to sputter and I watched helplessly as he launched himself into another coughing fit.

"Easy, Watson," I murmured to him, my arm still supporting his head and my blasted voice trembling. "Easy."

His eyelashes fluttered and he moaned, opening his eyes with an apprehensive start.

"It's only me," I soothed. He turned toward me and his eyes, which had been entirely dazed and unfocused, appeared to recognize me. That at least, I hoped, was a good sign.

"Holmes?" He asked with a croak. As soon as he had spoken, he coughed again, gasping and choking as though he could not draw in his air.

"I'm here, Watson. Just try and breathe easy, now." I had to force my words out through a second, rather large lump in my throat—I hoped I wasn't getting a cold on top of everything.

At last he seemed able to catch his breath and the coughing stopped, but he looked entirely exhausted. I eased his head back onto the pillows, pulling my arm free, and yet Watson seemed restless. I took his hand again and he pressed mine—a startlingly weak press, coming from my Boswell.

"You're…not…to blame," Watson said faintly. He, ever considerate, tried to smile at me reassuringly.

The smoke from the lamps, low as they were, must have bothered me, for I felt tears prick my eyes. I cleared my throat and, for want of a response, squeezed his hand. In a short amount of time, Watson slipped back into a sleep that was partially, no doubt, inspired by morphine. It was going to be a long night so I was determined to ask Mrs. Hudson to brew a pot of coffee. I would need that and more for my vigil at Watson's bed side, and if I had not thought it might disturb him I would have had her fetch my pipe as well.

I was not looking forward to the long, dark night of waiting, for I would, for once, have too much time to think. To think about how badly Watson was hurt, to brood about his injuries, to mull over the entire scenario, and to ponder about exacting my revenge. Crawford was dead, true, but his partner and other connections no doubt still lived and they were, judging by Miss Samira's words, a threat to my friend. I was going to have a mentally, physically, and emotionally challenging ordeal ahead. Nevertheless, I was going to make certain that nothing else would harm Watson, whatever it took.


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note: **Hello, all. Here is the latest edition. I realized we've been in Holmes POV for a while now so I thought perhaps I would change things up. I was tempted to do one of those oft-times cliched 'fever dreams' sequences from Watson's POV but it would most likely end up stereotypical. So Samira is taking the reins for awhile. And though she may be a bit out of it, she's not really delirious, even though she feels like it.

I hope you all have liked the story. I've finished the evil 25 pager, but I now have to read and critique about 30 other student's short stories. Ah, the life of a grad student. Lol. Enough whining from me. (I have a while yet before it is due, anyway.) So enjoy this chapter. Thank you everyone who has been reading and thank you to all of you who have reviewed--it is you that have made me "keep on truckin.'" :D

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**Samira**

Someone has their hand on your back. You have just come to awareness and you realize you are lying on your stomach, but the worst thing is that you can feel someone's hand on you.

It is a man's hand—the palm is large and rough—and you suck in your breath and jerk away, sitting up. It is then that you realize your camisole is gone and you are bare-chested. Flushing, you cross your arms over your chest and stare at the man before you.

He is short and portly with giant eyes and he has cautiously withdrawn a few steps at your outburst. Although he seems unthreatening, you do not move—you have seen men that seem meek become more ferocious than the overtly cruel ones. You do not wish to put your hand on the cobra's throat.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see movement and you jump when you realize another person is moving toward you—_oh, please, not two_—but you relax slightly when you realize it is a matronly looking woman.

"You're all right, love; we're only here to help." She turns to the man and says, "For goodness sake, doctor, turn around until she's lying down again!"

"She is not the first patient I have seen nude," the doctor grumbles, but he does as she said.

The woman continued, "My name is Mrs. Hudson—I am Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes' landlady."

At their names, you relax and realize where you are. Your temporary relaxation dissolves because you do not know if the doctor is well.

"The man turned around there is Dr. Michener. I won't let any harm come to you," Mrs. Hud-son murmurs as she sits at the head of the couch next to you, patting your shoulder lightly.

_Mother_, you think, partially because you are delirious and light-headed and partially because your mother was the last woman who spoke to you like that, with gentle maternal concern.

"You're all right," she continues, patting your hand. "Dr. Michener was just finishing up tending to your back. Lay back down here on your stomach with your head on my leg—I shan't mind—and let him finish, dear. I've got a nice, light nightgown for you to put on after."

Her voice dims the fear that has so constantly been your companion and you glance at the man, who hasn't turned around.

"I am Samira Sakda. You may name me Samira," you whisper and then slowly ease yourself down, putting your head on her lap. You haven't lain like this since you were five and you had a fever and your mother sat with you all night on the dirt floor of your hut. You can remember her smoothing your hair and putting cool rags on your neck, humming softly.

For an instant, you see a clear image of your Mother—her thin, oval face, light orange-brown eyes, the thick bands of orange beads she always had around her neck, the beige dress of a married woman she always wore, her hair tied up into a turban. How you used to love to take off her turban at night and run your hands through her hair, her hair that was down past her waist and as thick as syrup. _She was beautiful_, you think, even though she had yellow, yellow teeth from smoking her pipe of tobacco. It was why she always put a hand over her mouth when she laughed and why she mostly smiled with her mouth closed. You remember her. You can see her. When the image fades and her face is again out of your grasp, you blink rapidly to keep the tears away.

At least your dizziness has receded. For the first time, you pay attention to how you feel and you realize your wrist has been splinted and your side has been covered with a bandage. You do not flinch when Dr. Mich-en-er applies something cold that stings onto one of the lash marks—now that you know he is a doctor, you are no longer afraid.

You _are_ tired, however, and Mrs. Hudson has begun gently stroking your hair every time you hiss in pain and so you are half dozing when the doctor finishes.

"All done now," Dr. Mich-en-er says in an apologetic tone, looking at you.

You murmur, "_Khorb koon kha…_Thank you."

"Madam, miss," he says, addressing Mrs. Hudson and yourself. "I would recommend a limited diet to begin with as she—you—have nearly starved. Only beef tea, a spoonful of jelly, gruel, milk, and perhaps some toast, at first. After a few days, light fare such as fish and chicken may be added. Miss Sakda, be careful with that wrist—it is terribly swollen and has some open sores on it that could lead to a fever. If the skin becomes hot to the touch, send for me. You can use wet, warm compresses on it. Otherwise, make sure all the bandages are changed twice a day and the liniments I left are reapplied. The splint should stay on at all times, only coming off to change the bandages beneath."

"Is that all, doctor?" Mrs. Hudson asks.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then here, sir. Many thanks for your help and have a good evening." She stands and hands him an envelope that you assume contains his fee. It always comes down to money, your first master told you. Everything has a price.

"Good evening," he replies, and then leaves.

"Are you ready for your night dress, Samira?"

"Yes." You are more than ready for it—you stand, swaying, as she helps you out of your bloomers and into the thin cotton dress. Its back is square cut and so it doesn't lay on the worst of your lash marks. "Thank you."

"It's nothing at all, dear. Now, I think I should see you off to bed."

You start to sit on the couch and she laughs, sounding slightly alarmed and slightly amused. "You can't sleep up here—with the _gentlemen_. You may room with me; I'll be glad for the company."

You want to cry at the simple kindness this woman has shown—so much kindness! First Miss Fairchild, then Dr. Watson, and now this lady—and even Mr. Holmes, who slightly frightens you, is not cruel. You have experienced more good will and benevolence recently than you have throughout most of your life.

"Thank you. May I please speak to Mr. Holmes first? And see Dr. Wat-son?"

She hesitates and then nods, so you stand up and begin to walk shakily forward when she steps in front of you. "Not without a robe! Stay here, I'll return in an instant."

When Mrs. Hud-son returns she is carrying what seems like an immense bit of fabric. She holds it out for you to see and you think that she has made a mistake and brought a regular dress.

The landlady sees your expression and smiles, "It is a bit elaborate, twas a gift, but it covers the body best. Here, I'll help you get it on."

Staring, you look at the pretty blue dressing gown that is covered with small orange flowers and has a small train and bustle in the back. The dressing gown closes in the front with Chinese corded closures and has a corded tie at the waist. It is, in all probability, nicer than any dress you have owned, other than the silk dress the first man who bought you made you put on sometimes, the one that belonged to his wife, in order to make you to "look respectable."

And that is what you feel like in Mrs. Hud-son's dressing gown. Respectable. You feel respectable in a way that recalls Miss Fairchild giving you your own dress, and in a way you never felt in the silk gown that belonged to another woman. In that dress you had felt unclean—always, unclean.

Mrs. Hud-son buttons and ties all the necessary things and then puts her arm around you to help you to the door to the bedroom. You smile and nod at her, so she releases you and moves away and so you tap lightly at the door before you enter.

Dr. Wat-son is asleep on the bed and Mr. Holmes' head is bowed over him like he is praying and you see he has the doctor's hand in his.

"Mr. Holmes?" You ask softly, leaning against the frame of the door.

He starts out of his reverie and instantly releases the doctor's hand, staring up at you. "Miss Samira."

Even his _voice_ sounds uncomfortable. Briefly, you think it is funny that men can be adorably awkward. "He is…resting well?" Your voice is barely above a whisper—you do not wish to wake the doctor.

Mr. Holmes nods. "Yes."

There is so much worry and heartsickness in that simple one-word answer that you are no longer quite so afraid of Mr. Holmes. Anyone who loves like that cannot be bad. "He will get better?"

Something unidentifiable and a little frightening passes over his face—unspeakable grief and extreme hatred and worry—though the expression fades quickly, as though he has slid on an invisible mask. "Dr. Michener said he is not out of danger…but yes. He _will_ get better." You can hear the unspoken part of the sentence that says, 'He _must_.'

"I…am staying for night, in Mrs. Hud-son's rooms."

"And how are you, Miss Samira?" He eyes the splint. "So the wrist is broken?"

"Yes, but I am fine, all treated now." The dialogue between you is slightly forced—you are afraid of men other than the doctor and he is preoccupied with worry for the doctor. The irony of it makes you want to laugh at what an odd pair you make. "If I can help Dr. Wat-son be better, I will."

Mr. Holmes meets your eyes for the first time and gives a small nod. It is a nod of something like approval and you smile softly at him. Funny to meet someone more emotionally discomfited than yourself. "Tomorrow, if you are feeling better and the doctor is…" His voice trails off as Dr. Wat-son lets out a small moan.

Immediately the detective puts his hand on his friend's shoulder and whispers something you cannot hear. Looking at Mr. Holmes' white face, you cannot decide who is in more pain—the injured doctor or Mr. Holmes. Your heart goes out to him—you know too well what he feels—and you swallow the memory of Lian that rises in your throat.

After Dr. Wat-son seems to be resting comfortably again he continues where he left off. "And if the doctor is stable, then perhaps you could finish what you began to tell me earlier?"

You nod, knowing he means for you to finish your story. You hear the bustle of skirts at the door and Mrs. Hud-son walks into the room.

"You won't be questioning her tonight, Mr. Holmes, and I daresay you may not question her tomorrow if she is still as weak as a kitten." Her voice is full of protective indignance and you bite the inside of your cheek to stop from laughing out loud at the look Mr. Holmes gives her.

She, however, is unfazed. "And another thing—" Again you force yourself not to laugh as you see Mr. Holmes raise his eyebrows. "You may fetch me at any time of the night if you feel tired and I will sit up with the doctor in your place." Mr. Holmes starts to speak, but she holds up a hand. "No arguing, sir. Tomorrow night, at least, I will take a shift whether you desire my help or not. The doctor would not wish you to sacrifice your own health for his."

She bustles out of the room as quickly as she entered. You meet Mr. Holmes' eyes and share a wry expression with him.

"Come along, Samira, you must get to bed, dear," Mrs. Hud-son calls.

"You had best do as she says," Mr. Holmes says dryly.

You nod but walk unsteadily to the bed first and move to the opposite side from where Mr. Holmes is sitting. You lean down and whisper, "_Ga roo naa, __hăai bpùay kha_…please, get back to good health."

You lightly touch his hand and then head for the door. Already, Mr. Holmes' attention is focused entirely back on Dr. Wat-son.

Your heart feels like someone is squeezing it and you think that Wat-son must survive, not merely for his own sake or for yours, but for Mr. Holmes.


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note: **Hey, btw, I've been meaning to point out how exceedingly neglectful I have been in not mentioning that I do not, in fact, own Watson or Holmes or Mrs. Hudson, though I do own Samira and all the other chars you don't recognize. I wish I owned W+H, I really do, but they belong to the esteemed Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. And I am not him. I do not even have a mustache. lol. :)

Okay, so I decided that we could delve into Watson's POV for a while. I think I have managed to stay away from cliche because this is Watson briefly coming to consciousness, not Watson dreaming about Holmes' death in his fever or some such. lol. Hope you all enjoy. And of course, thanks for reading and reviewing--it is the reason I keep on writing.

PS) Thanks everyone for being really nice and welcoming, btw. You guys are a friendly community, even if I don't know everyone yet. :)

* * *

**Watson**

Even before I open my eyes, I know something is amiss. Like, for instance, the normal fresh feeling that comes upon my waking has been replaced by the sensation that I have been assaulted, tossed over the side of a ship, and left to drown.

In fact, I feel _submerged_. Sinking further and further into the dark. The pain solidifies; my head feels as though several glass bottles have slammed into it, leaving fragments of glass embedded in my flesh, and someone has then knotted a strong piece of fabric around the wounds, pressing the glass further and further into my skull. I shift, and instantly regret moving, because now it is as though my ribs and lungs are being crushed in a vice. I cannot breathe correctly—I take a breath and the air is instantly expelled in a wracking cough.

"Breathe, Watson," an anxious voice, rather close to me, says. I _know_ that voice and open my eyes.

The first thing I notice is that my vision is muddled. My brain feels muddled, too, and it takes me a few seconds to focus on Holmes. His brow is furrowed, his eyes seem troubled, and his thin lips are pressed together in a worried line. I try to say something, anything, to ease his worry, but again my efforts merely result in a fit of coughing. Holmes is then gone from my sight and just as I am beginning to feel alarmed, he returns with something in his hand, and gently slips his arm under my neck, propping me up.

"Swallow this, old man, it'll ease the cough."

At the sound of his familiar voice I can already breathe easier, but I swallow what I assume is a cough suppressant as he instructed and the dust storm in my lungs quiets down and I am able to take a normal breath.

"Holmes." My voice has been stripped down nearly bare and is gruff, throaty, and nearly indecipherable. I swallow and try again—my voice is still hoarse, but more understandable. "Holmes."

"Watson, my dear fellow," his voice is unguardedly tender. "You shouldn't speak. Conserve your strength." He takes my hand and I squeeze his, hoping to let him know without words that he alone, now, is my family.

"Samira?" I do not feel up to much more than one word overtures, but Holmes knows me well and thus he knows what I am asking.

"She is well. Mrs. Hudson has taken her downstairs and tucked her in as though she were her own child."

Relief for the brave young woman floods through me, but I survey Holmes' tired appearance with a frown. "You need sleep, too."

Even speaking four words saps at my strength and the exhaustion I feel is beginning to press down on me like a weight. And why, suddenly, has it become so deucedly hot in here?

"I rather think you should take your own advice, doctor." He says it lightly, but I can hear the somberness hidden in his voice. "You need rest more than I."

"Thank you…" I have this strange feeling that I have to say these words right this instant. "For coming for me…for…everything."

The heat in the room feels as though it has layered on top of me like a blanket and I know, then, that I am becoming feverish. Fevers and head trauma do not, as a rule, go together well, but I am determined to fight—I have no desire to die and leave Holmes alone. Still, I need to tell him, need him to know…

Apparently Holmes has noticed the flush spreading over me for he puts a gentle hand on an unwrapped portion of my forehead and then starts in surprise.

"'S just…a temp'rature," I say, my tongue thick and heavy. "Had worse." It is as though all the words and images in my brain are swirling around in a tempest and it takes an extreme effort of will to bring my disjointed thoughts together. He begins to stand up, but I put my hand on his arm.

"I'll return shortly, Watson," he says softly. "But I need to fix the powder for your fever."

I manage to nod my understanding, but I still kept my hand on his arm. I fight the black blanket attempting to smother me back into the place of unconsciousness and say, "Ho'mes. Be well…" I tighten my grip on his arm. "Do not…blame…yourself."

As soon as I utter the words I felt I had to in the horrible case that I do not survive, I know that I have lost the fight with the dark and that it will claim me.

"Watson. _Watson_." At his insistent tone I focus on his face again. "Do not give up. Don't you dare give up." I can hear his fear and his raw rage, but I know that he is still fighting himself for restraint, still controlling his deep, hidden pain.

I wish I could tell him that sometimes it is better to let it out and yell and curse and to rail against fate, shaking one's proverbial fist at the sky, but Holmes is still trying to control himself and I cannot seem to move my mouth.

I try again to speak, so that I can tell him that I shan't give up, that _he_ had better not give up no matter what happens, but all that comes out is a low groan.

I hear Holmes say, "You _must_ hold on, Watson" in a voice that in some other man I would call a panic and then my vision goes from red to purple to black, all encompassing black.


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Note**: Hello again, I'm back. Sorry it took a few days ((ducks as rotten vegetables are thrown)) but here is the next chapter!

Part of the reason it took so long is work/school and part of it is that I meticulously attempted to get Holmes' voice just right.

I even read the chapter out loud in my best English accent and my 'what i think Holmes sounds like' voice. Which was hard, considering I'm American and female. My cat, at least, was amused. Although I still think his voice isn't perfect, it is about as good as I can get it, I think.

Please let me know what you think. I appreciate all of you who have been reading and reviewing, you guys, to put it mildly, rock. :)

There is mild language in this next chapter, nothing horrid. Oh, btw, in case you didn't know, an ewer is what they call the pitcher that goes with a washing basin. :)

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**Holmes**

The clock in the sitting room chimes; it is well past midnight, making it two days now, two days that Watson has been in danger of losing his life. I am still confounded as to why my mind insists on replaying the events of these days—it is not at all a rational thing to do—yet whenever I close my eyes I still see Watson, battered and bleeding, the glint of a shard of mirror at his neck. And of course, when I open them, I see Watson here and now, lying in my bed restlessly, trembling and unconscious.

These images do nothing to allay the cold worm of nausea presently squirming up my throat. I have always felt that people who claim to feel physically ill upon seeing someone else's pain were deluding themselves and letting their emotions get the better of them. This is not a comfortable thought, because right now I _do_ feel ill myself—I am quivering almost as much as Watson is. Either I have been too hard in the past and I am less in control than I think or I am coming down with something and feeling my own symptoms. Regardless, I _must_ maintain my pretense of calm. Emotions lead only to mistakes. Mistakes and pain. _They also lead to friendship, old fellow, _Watson's voice replies in my head. _And to love._

His voice sounds quite real and I look down, asking half ashamedly, "Watson?"

Naturally he does not respond—I must really get myself under control; I cannot afford to go off on flights of fancy. Frowning, I touch an un-bandaged part of his forehead with my tremulous fingers—he is _boiling_. Blast it! So far Dr. Michener's advice has been worth less than nothing—I mixed the powders and gave the first dose to Watson, but there has been no change, except, perhaps, an increase in his sweating.

_Patience, Holmes, these things take time, _Watson again speaks silently. In other circumstances I might have smiled—it seems my Boswell has gotten so far past my defenses he is even inside my head.

I look down—he is sweating heavily; the dressing gown Dr. Michener changed him into is quite damp and several rivulets run down his forehead from beneath the bandage. His face, which had been so pale, is now red—not slightly flushed—red. I have already pulled all but the thinnest bed linens off of him, but still he radiates heat.

I once thought inactivity was the worst thing that could happen to me, but I know now that it is inactivity _and_ helplessness. Helplessness to aid Watson.

His lashes flutter and I grip his hand—will he wake up? Be lucid? He does not actually open his eyes, but his hand in my own suddenly returns my grip.

"Watson?" My voice sounds rather like I would imagine his would—feeble. I clear my throat with disgust; emotional displays will not help my friend. "Can you hear me, old chap?"

His brow furrows, he shifts, and turns his head on the pillow. "Wha…"

It is not a question, it is barely even a word, and yet I am sure of what he is asking.

"You've a fever, Watson, you were injured and you've gone into a fever." This time, at least, my voice is stronger, but the rolling queasiness, which I am beginning to realize is worry—more than worry, _dread_—is as strong as ever in my stomach.

"Cool…cloths," he moans, taking a deep, flinching breath. No doubt my friend has detected my uncertainty of how to help him, even though he is not quite conscious; he has always been far better at deducing emotions than I. "Wet."

_Of course._ His medical advice is indispensable even when he is the patient! I clear my throat hurriedly at my next thought—_**he**__ is indispensable_. And it is true. I have sat here with him and tried to imagine life without him and I cannot. Probably because there wouldn't be one.

Although I hate to release his hand and leave him even for a short time, I get up and pour water from the ewer into the basin on my wash stand. Not for the first time, I reflect on how I am not the best man to tend to a sick person. I am naturally impatient and utterly unaccustomed to offering sympathy. But this is _Watson_ and so I will blunder through for his sake. Somehow all of my constraints and rules, all of my planning and my resolve to remain unattached, none of it, has ever applied to him; he has somehow wheedled his way past my defenses.

For instance, I think ruefully, now eviscerated is my rule of staying away from sick beds, not for fear of contagion, but of a dread of the emotions often evoked by such a setting. And what deuced emotions they are.

A shuddering sigh of pain and what sounds like a whisper of my name from Watson causes me to glance over at him and fumble with the towel in my hands. "Hold on, Watson," I murmur, hoping that he can hear me from somewhere in his delirium. "I'm coming."

After thoroughly wetting the towel, I wring it out slightly then place it on Watson's neck. I grab another wet cloth and open the top of his dressing gown, putting the cloth on his chest. Other than making sure I have the fever powder mixed and ready to give him two tablespoons three times a day, the only other way I know to combat a fever is, as Watson himself suggested, to keep the patient cool.

"H'mes." He seems to be struggling toward consciousness and he shudders and tries to lurch upright, gasping at the pain movement causes.

"Easy there, old fellow. Remain still." I take one of his hands in mine and then place my other on his shoulder lightly.

"H'mes?" This is a question—a plea, I would say, if it wasn't coming from my strong Watson—and I blink rapidly, trying to erase the burning sensation in my chest, the dampness of my eyes.

"I'm here, Watson, I shan't leave you, I'm right here." My voice cracks slightly and I frown with annoyance, although all is forgotten the second he opens his eyes and meets mine.

"There's somethin'…" Watson's voice is thick and his hazel eyes are fever bright and full of pain, and I catch my breath when I see them. "Somethin'…I…" He cuts himself off and groans, putting his free hand to his head. "Needta…'member…"

I knit my brows together, is he merely confused or is he trying to tell me something? "You're alright, Watson, you're home now and Miss Samira is safe," I say, just in case.

Again he shudders, his breath sounding strained, and I grip his hand as he lets out a short cough. "'S not…tha'…I-I know…there's somethin'…I needta tell…you…somethin' I…forgot…but…I can't—can't 'member," his voice breaks off and turns into a groan, his forehead creased with pain and his mouth in a tight line.

"It's alright, you can tell me later, Watson," I murmur, not wanting him to be so upset. "You need to rest, regain your strength."

He opens his eyes again, but he is not looking at me. In fact, he no longer seems at all lucid as he begins to shiver once more, a little at first, and then convulsively. I quickly pull the cloth off his chest and dunk it in the bowl, and before I touch his skin I can feel the warmth radiating off of him. His fever is getting worse. I really need to get his medical bag and attempt to take his temperature, but I hate to leave him, so I gingerly dab his face with the washcloth and then put it back on his chest. He takes no notice of me, just stares at the door fixedly. I do not like his expression; it is almost as if he is working himself into a state of extreme anxiety—

"Not the falls!" Watson's cry interrupts my thoughts and he jerks upright at the same moment I myself start at his outburst. He wrenches upright as if to get out of the bed and for a second I am frozen, unable to move at the unmistakable anguish in his voice. He is talking about _Reichenbach_ Falls, I realize, but even though I feel an almost physical pain in my chest, I hurriedly move, catching Watson in my arms as he slumps forward.

"I—I'm here, Watson," I whisper, gently laying him back down on to the pillow. What else can I say? And then I think of one thing, something I would be too proud, too embarrassed to say if the situation was different, if I was certain that he could hear me. "I'm sorry."

He takes in a shuddering breath. "…falls…"

If I thought I was in an uncomfortable situation before it was double so now—I doubt I shall ever feel this particular blend of sorrow, worry, anger, and guilt again. And why does everything always go back to those blasted falls?

"Watson?" No response. "Watson, you listen to me." My voice is harsher than I mean for it to be, so I clear my throat and put my hand over his. "I am here, right here, with you now. I am not—" I pause and consider my words, for once wishing I had a little of Watson's natural skill with words of sensitivity. "I am not going to leave you again." I swallow. "Ever. So…" My voice is quiet, as though I am afraid someone will hear, but I finish it. I say, "So don't you dare think of leaving me."

I flush a little at my own demonstration, but it has the desired effect—Watson opens his eyes again and then focuses on my face. I can tell he recognizes me, and all at once I feel like letting out a shuddering breath of my own.

"Holmes." His voice is suddenly clear and he grasps my wrist. "The message."

He squeezes my wrist and then he is unconscious again, utterly still. So still that I place my hand on his chest, relieved when I feel its uneven rising.

'The message,' he had said. What message? I shake my head—probably he was lost in a past case, not thinking clearly, and even if his words are relevant I cannot think about it now, I can only think of him and make sure he survives the night.

I re-dampen the towels repeatedly—his fever is raging now so that his skin seems to drain the cloths dry in minutes—and I wait. I am notoriously not one for waiting. If it wasn't for the sound of the clock in the sitting room chiming occasionally, I would think I was trapped in some sort of nightmarish limbo where time has stopped. Another fanciful thought—really, I hardly recognize myself.

Am I still Sherlock Holmes, cold-hearted, unfeeling, ruthless in my pursuit of justice? And if so, how is it that I would forfeit everything I hold dear—my own life, truth, even justice itself, if only Watson would be well…

I do not take my eyes off of Watson even as I go to the washstand to dip the cloth in the basin. His breathing remains labored, his fever high, and occasionally he mutters or thrashes in his fever-dreams. I reapply the cool rags, praying for it all to pass. He should drink something, I know, but I do not have a glass in the room and I hate to leave him. Soon, though, I will _have_ to go and get a glass as well as his medical bag—he will have need of them before the night is through.

As Watson lets out a particularly heart-wrenching groan and strikes out at an invisible foe, I hold his shoulders and give up on entirely hiding my emotions; I would settle for controlling them at all. "It's only me," I whisper urgently to him. "You're alright."

He finally quiets under my firm restraint and eventually settles into a stillness that is just as unnerving as his feverish struggles.

After a few minutes of watching his steady, if ragged, breathing, I think that perhaps now is the time to fetch the necessary supplies. I will be quick, I am an adept sprinter, but the thought still twists my stomach.

I need to monitor his fever. He needs to stay hydrated. Although true, neither thought comforts me. It is as though I am afraid he will vanish if I leave for an instant.

"Watson, I'm not leaving, I am fetching supplies. I will return momentarily."

He makes no response and the now familiar, if still annoying, bulge in my throat doubles in size as I move quickly out the door before I change my mind.


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Note:**No, Holmes and Watson and Mrs. Hudson and Canon stuff do not belong to me. Samira does and so does any other unrecognizable character. I don't even own Lestrade! ((sigh)) Not that he's in this story, but still.

Well 'ere's the update, chaps. Sorry if it was long in coming, again I am being obsessively picky about how I want the story to sound. And Holmes' view is always the hardest. Anyone can channel a 40 ish English doctor with a mustache, but a 40 ish lanky English detective is another story. lol. ;)

No violence, tons of suspense and angst, and mild British swear words.

Hope to update soon but I am spending my mornings supervising children with scissors and other fun art supplies--long story-- and the days working, so free time comes only at night. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this, and really like it. I've grown attached to this fic, which I started because I love H and W and also because I was thinking about a women's studies class I took in college to meet some requirements and how we learned how horrible some of the world still is for women. There are still women like Samira in the world today. Okay, sorry if I got all preachy and serious.

In other words, I hope you like my fic, but do feel free to offer suggestions or criticisms. I was a creative writing major, I'm used to critiques. Though praise is nice too. Actually anything at all is nice because then I know your reading. Even if you just say, "Aw" or "I like rabbits" or, like SOME people ((wink)) "I'm going to sic the hound of Baskervilles on you." xD So thanks if you're reading and if you've reviewed!

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**Holmes**

The house is silent, entirely silent and still. It feels unnatural and, if I were more imaginative like my Boswell, I might say eerie, to skulk around one's home at night. Particularly to skulk around in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen as I have rarely seen it during the day, let alone in the long hours before sunrise. It is lucky I have some natural ability to see in the dark otherwise I should be out of luck—in my haste I did not grab a candle.

This small oversight vexes me considerably; it merely accentuates the fact that I am not myself. I tighten my jaw and inwardly shake myself. I _cannot_ afford any error—I _cannot_ keep making so many mistakes—not with Watson's life on the line. So why is it I am having such a hard time restraining myself?

I grab a spoon—after discovering which confounded drawer our landlady likes to hide them in—and shove it inside the glass I've picked up. A tinkling sound startles me and I look for the source of the noise and find that the spoon is rattling inside the glass—apparently, my hand is shaking.

Scowling, I snatch the spoon and hold it in my fingers—I cannot seem to stop trembling and I do not wish to make noise. I look around the room for anything else of use and throw a few towels over my shoulder. Now I merely need to grab Watson's medical bag on the way back to my room.

I hurry to the stairs to our rooms and hesitate after a few strides up the steps. Watson _could _use another pitcher of water, but it would be deucedly awkward to carry it along with everything else. I could wake Mrs. Hudson, I suppose, but I am loathe to do so. I will come back for the water.

I am nearly at the top of the stairs when a small creak of the wooden floors behind me causes me to whirl around, ready for fisticuffs. If someone is here to harm Watson—

Miss Samira Sakda peeks out of the door to Mrs. Hudson's rooms at the bottom of the stairs. I lower my guard and suppress a sigh—I want to hasten back to Watson this instant.

"I did no mean to startle you." Her voice is extremely quiet, partly because she does not wish to wake Mrs. Hudson and partly, I think, because she is still weak. "I heard noise." So she decided to investigate on her own? "How is doctor?

"Feverish," I reply shortly.

"Is there way I can help?"

I debate only for an instant—Watson needs me _now_, and so I find myself nodding, saying curtly, "You may bring me a pitcher of water, if you please."

She nods and I dash up the remaining steps, grabbing Watson's bag from the side of his desk, and I head to my room with a great deal of apprehension. I have the most peculiar feeling that Watson will not be in the bed; that he will have vanished from my life forever. Thrusting the feeling away, I stride inside the door.

He is still there, of course, and the ridiculous feeling of relief I have at seeing him fades away to an almost physical twinge of concern.

Watson is quaking, his exposed chest flushed, and his face remains crimson. He is still deep in the throes of the fever.

I throw down the bag and rush over to him, grabbing the cloths and dipping them in the cool basin of water. I replace them on his neck and chest, disconcerted to find that he is a veritable furnace. Blast.

An unwelcome thought creeps into my brain—_he is dying and I cannot save him_—and the sour taste of bile rises to the back of my throat. Now is not the time for such thoughts or for any thoughts at all, I tell myself. It is the time for action.

I swallow the sick taste in my mouth and the thick dread in my throat._ I. Will. _Not_. Lose. Him_, I chant silently, wetting the extra cloths I brought and adding one to his lower chest so that his torso is entirely covered and making sure the one at his neck stays in place. He could use another cloth on his head, but it will not do for me to place a washcloth over the bandaging and so I gently un-wrap him. After I ease the lint pads off of his two injuries, I suck in a gasp.

His hair is plastered to his scalp with sweat, as wet as if he has been outside in a downpour, and a few loose strands cling to his slick forehead. I gently brush the hair away from his wounds with my shaky fingertips and I feel sick at what seems like actual waves of heat rising from his flesh.

Watson's face already seems thinner, almost gaunt, and his stitches are obscene; black thread woven in and out of my friend's red flesh. The bruising has spread so that the majority of his forehead is purple and the rest is the bright red color of fever. His larger wound is approximately two, two and a half, inches long, just beneath his hairline on the left side. It is swelling more so than the lump to the right, which is apparently where he was struck with something, most likely the butt of a pistol.

He makes a low, wheezing moan, and I squeeze his shoulder, feeling somewhat vindicated at my irrational shooting of Crawford. The man had been dying before I finished him, at any rate, but I am glad I had some small measure of revenge. He deserved far, far worse. I ease a cloth onto his forehead and he moans, making me flinch with guilt.

"Sorry, old chap," I murmur. He sighs heavily and doesn't stir again, too much of his energy being used up in his shivering.

"Here is water," a quiet voice says from the doorway and I do not spare Miss Samira a glance as she places the pitcher she carries on the washstand next to the other.

I simply readjust the cool cloths on Watson's forehead, careful to avoid touching his injuries. Then I wrinkle my nose. What is that scent? I finally glance at Miss Samira, because it is she who has carried the odd smell into the room.

"I…I have _prakob_ for Dr. Wat-son." My glance is impatient, I know, and she pulls at the top of her nightgown—she is not wearing a dressing gown, I notice absently, Mrs. Hudson would have a fit. "It is, ah, herbs wrapped inside cloth." She holds up what looks to me like a folded, wet towel that smells disconcertingly of mint. "In Siam, when sick, you put this on chest. Normally it is hot, but doctor is hot so I made this cool. It…will help with fever, maybe, and take out sickness."

She is tentative and earnest but I am naturally skeptical of Siamese herbal remedies and leery of any such thing in general.

"Where did you get the herbs?" I ask at last, for I see she will not leave until I speak to her about it.

Samira flushes. "In kitchen. I find _sae-ra-nee _and _ho-ra-pha_, so I mix them—they were already dried—and crush them, and put them in towel. I do no know where Mrs. Hud-son collected plants, for spot is important, and I hope she picked them at good time of day, too, but I think maybe they are better than nothing any way."

Again I stifle a sigh. I can hear Watson, lying on the floor of Crawford's house, saying, _Holmes, you must be gentle with Samira. She saved my life more than once. _

"Thank you for bringing the water, Miss Samira, and while I appreciate the thought behind the, er, _prakob_, as I do not know the ingredients—"

"I brought with. I no know English names, so I brought leaf of each so you would no worry." She is more perceptive than I realized. "_Sae-ra-nee_," she unclenches her left fist and holds up a mint leaf, "and _ho-ra-pha_." The second leaf looks like basil. Miss Samira holds out her bundle and looks so hesitant and worried and eager to help that I accept her offer of the towel full of crushed spices graciously.

Although I seriously doubt the medicinal purposes of a bunch of flavorings, I do not doubt the sincerity behind her gesture. At another time I might have been more churlish toward her, but her eyes are teary and she is genuinely worried about Watson and he had, after all, told me to be gentle with her, so I hold in my feelings about herbal medicine and merely say, "Thank you."

Samira nods seriously. "Put on his chest, by heart." She waits expectantly and so I did so, albeit reluctantly, deciding I could wait until she was gone to remove it. "I hope it helps." The young woman meets my eyes for the first time and I have an unusual for me, uneasy feeling that she knows my thoughts about her offering as well as the fact that I would rather be alone. "I would offer to stay but I am tired and would only be in way, I think. Do no tire yourself out, Mr. Holmes. Take care of doctor, but take care of self, too."

She leaves and as soon as she is out of view, I take the bundle of herbs off of Watson and drop them onto the floor.

After another glance at how soaked with sweat my friend is, I know he has to be re-hydrated. I should, however, take his temperature before I attempt to get him to drink some water. I throw open his medical bag and dig around—there, a thermometer. Now, how does one do this…?

I am not sure, so I close my eyes and picture Watson at my bedside the last time I was ill, solicitously making sure I had enough pillows and blankets. He typically ignored my annoyed complaints, feeling my forehead and surveying me with his concerned hazel eyes. He shook the thermometer several times and then placed it in my mouth when I opened it to protest. His glare was the only thing that had prevented me from spitting it out and I can almost smile remembering his gentle, yet firm, concern. I wish it was me in his place _now_, but yearning for something does not make it so.

I take several deep, calming breaths, willing myself to stop quivering, and then shake the thermometer as I sit down in the chair beside my friend. I am in control.

Evidently I am fooling myself—the thermometer flies out of my grasp with the force of my shake. I breathe a sigh of relief when I find it has landed on the bed and I pick it up, examining it in the low light; at least the mercury is down.

I know how to read a thermometer, Watson made sure of that, but I can't quite recall where one places it in the mouth. Had he put the thing under my tongue or above it? Under, I think, so I gently open his mouth and slide it in. He makes no protest, which is worrisome, and I sit and wait. I despise waiting.

I reign in the panic I can feel under my skin, ready to burst out, again reassuring myself,_ I am in control_.

After a few tense minutes of waiting I take the thermometer from his mouth and hold it up toward the dim light. I peer at the line and then recheck and check it again.

103 degrees. His temperature is already 103 degrees. I open my mouth but nothing comes out and I feel suddenly dizzy, suddenly heavy, and it is all I can do not to sink back in despair.

And then suddenly Watson's eyes are open—although he does not seem entirely aware—and he is in pain. He lets out a cry and begins fighting the covers, trying to tear them off, and he jerks away from the hands I place on his shoulders, and then groans at the movement.

"Watson, you're alright, hold steady, old chap." He quivers. "_Watson_," My voice is more than a little desperate.

"N-no," he mutters, shaking my hand off of his arm and looking at the ceiling. His hazel eyes are confused, frantic. "Not—not," his voice slurs and he says something along the lines of, "home…not…dead…"

"Watson," I begin but he continues.

"No, n-not," and then he repeats what I originally thought was 'home' in a slightly clearer voice. "Holmes. No!"

He said 'Holmes.' Not 'home.' He said, 'No, not Holmes, not dead.' I feel no gratification that he is concerned for me, only sorrow that I am indirectly putting him through more pain.

"Oh, Watson," I clutch at his shoulders in a manner I normally would not, but I cannot think about it now; I am willing him to hold on.

He convulsively shudders and I keep my grip on him, my eyes wet and not merely because of the smoke from the lamps.

"Please, no," he whispers, and then he arches his back in a paroxysm of pain, straining against my hold, and then lets out a long, low moan that ends with a whimper. It is the worse sound I have ever heard, worse than the baying of the hound of the Baskervilles, worse than Moriarty's triumphant, glittery laugh, worse than the small puff that follows the firing of an air gun; it is infinitely worse and _it is coming from Watson_.

After a few moments, Watson collapses back to the bed, his eyes closed, and I bite my lip as he instinctively grits his teeth and clenches his jaw. I untangle him from the sheet and grasp his hand firmly. Both of us are trembling.

I can hardly stand watching him try to control his pain. Even though he is delirious, even though he is not cognizant, he is still trying to control his agony—I can see it in the way he furrows his brows, clenches his jaw. That simple fact makes me want to leap up and pace the room or leap up and find Crawford's partner and kill him for being associated with the man who had done this to Watson, but I remain in place, holding his hand, squeezing his shoulder, and waiting.

As soon as I can, I will give him more morphine for the pain. Watson whimpers again and I clench his hand in mine, willing my strength to pass to him.

I am not, I know now, by any means in control.


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Note:**Guess who got off work early? I did! Computers crashed and so we all got to go home right after I got there lol. Sooooo I decided to update again.

I don't, unfortunately, own Holmes or Watson, just the unrecognizable-from-the-canon chars like Samira. (I do stake a claim, unofficially, on H+W, just so you know ;) )

This next part is in third person, but it is Watson's POV. Why didn't I stick to first person from Watson? Because right now, even _he_ feels like he is in third person--he doesn't feel connected to himself--and I wanted to demonstrate that with the writing style. So although it's 3rd person, it's still Watson.

Some language, no violence, still angst.

I hope you guys like it! (bounces around) _And_ I hope you keep reading and reviewing, I love getting feedback and I also love all of you for reading this. Sorry, I'm in a rather happy mood, plus I hardly slept last night AND I'm getting paid for not working, so basically, this is me in an upper mood much like Holmes when he is on a case. Enjoy the writing! :)

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**Watson**

It is hot, so hot. How he hates the extreme heat of Afghanistan. Afghanistan? Is that where he is? There is a sheet; he can feel a sheet wrapped around his legs, and he wants to kick it off, but he can't seem to move. If he were in Afghanistan, would he have a sheet? He doesn't know.

His mouth is wet. There is water in his mouth, and he knows suddenly that this is not the first time water has recently been put into his mouth, he has been drinking, or swallowing, anyway, and the coolness is nice until he tries to swallow again.

He coughs, chokes, the water sliding down the wrong way—into the trachea instead of the esophagus; how does he know that?—and the coughing makes the pain engulf him, forcing the breath out of him, making him shudder with its force.

Someone is squeezing his hand; he suddenly is aware of fingers on his—thin, long fingers, wrapped in his own. There's a man speaking to him, softly but adamantly, like the waves of heat that keep washing over him.

He wants to respond, somehow he recognizes the voice, and wants to talk to it, but the words won't form and at any rate, he cannot breathe, can only cough.

Who is the voice? Who is _he_, for that matter? He doesn't know. He is confused, doesn't know what's happened—a battle, is that it?—he knows only that he hurts and he is hot and he can't quit coughing long enough to breathe.

He doesn't want to wake up. He doesn't want to go away from the darkness; he has a feeling only more pain awaits him.

But there is someone or something he is worried about. The voice. The hoarse, worried, insistent voice that's talking to him, he feels horribly concerned for it so shouldn't he wake up for the voice's sake?

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, old fellow, you had to have some water," the voice is saying. And then, when he doesn't stop coughing, "Dash it all, Watson, you breathe, do you hear me? Don't choke, for heaven's sake, just breathe."

He coughs once more and finally sucks in some air. His ribs hurt, they pound with pain, and his head, oh, his head feels as though he has an entire building crushing it. There is a close, unrelenting moaning sound in his ears—is _he_ making that noise?

"It's alright, Watson, I'm here, just—just hold on, alright? Hold on, I'm here," the voice continues and then he knows.

_Holmes_. It's Holmes. Sherlock Holmes is here and he is Watson, John Watson. A doctor. Deliriously, he feels like laughing—he's a doctor and he's ill. It strikes him as horribly amusing.

"I'm going to give you something for the pain now, Watson," Holmes continues, his voice uneven. "You'll be fine."

Holmes' hand pulls away from his and Watson groans.

"Ho'mes?" He whispers. _Damn_, it hurts so much to speak; the question seems to pound inside his head after he asks it.

Watson opens his eyes, fearful that Holmes has gone, that he is alone.

And then Holmes' face is right above his. He looks so serious and worried, and there is a hardness around his eyes—not at Watson, never at Watson—that means that he is furious.

Holmes is thinking about whoever did this to him—who _did_ do this to him? He remembers a girl, a frightened girl, and a telegraph, there was a telegraph, wasn't there? Or a message of some kind?

Watson fancies that even if they _were_ in Afghanistan, Holmes would still try and take on the entire enemy army. That is why he needs to get better; there is danger regardless of what happened, he can feel it, and he would rather die than let Holmes face the danger alone.

"Watson," Holmes says softly. "I've got the morphine." Holmes must see some expression on his face because he says, in a voice more gentle than he has ever heard from him, "No, I'm not leaving you."

Watson feels his arm being lifted, the strong, gentle fingers, and then the syringe injecting into him. It is nothing, nothing compared to the pain of the rest of his body, but he doesn't want the morphine, he wants to _think_.

Why is there danger? Are they safe? He groans, looks around the room at the pictures on the wall, but he can't make his mind work. Everything, the room, even Holmes, seems to be spinning around him and he ends up feeling dizzy and weak. He doesn't want Holmes to see him lose control of the pain, but he can't help grimacing. Where are they? This is home, isn't it? They're at Baker Street?

It doesn't matter. Holmes is here, and Holmes is what he cares about. It is harder and harder to think, harder and harder to breathe, and he feels his slippery grasp on consciousness slipping.

"Keep fighting, Watson, you can beat this. I'll be here with you and I'll help you beat this."

Watson ignores the pain and tries to smile at Holmes. "I kn-know." The world around him is unfurling like the peel of an orange and somehow he recognizes that he is fighting a fever and delirium, and he is not sure he is winning. "D-don't," his teeth are chattering now, blast it. "G-g-give up."

Holmes blanches and Watson knows he understands what he means—don't give up now but also don't give up in the event that he dies. His friend's pale face is the last thing Watson focuses on and he can see Holmes' lips moving, sees that he is speaking to him urgently, but he can't hear him and suddenly the peeling away of his world is finished and he is no longer awake.


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Note: **H+W belong to Sir ACD, Samira and other OC's belong to me.

Here we go, the next update. Just so you know, this switches between Holmes and Watson! I was going to just italicize Watson's part, but I've decided to put in the names, just to reiterate. Oh, and so you don't get confused, Watson is utterly delirious here and basically lost in his mind, hence the bizzare scene he is in. Well, the bizzare scene he THINKS he's in.

Er, mild language--sorry, but I really think these guys cursed occasionally--nothing serious, though. Angst--that's a big surprise, huh?

;)

Thank you guys for your feedback, I really _really_ _**really**_ appreciate your comments. Thank you for reading, everyone, and thanks if you've reviewed, too.

Let me know what you think--I finished this quite literally past two in the morning my time. 0-o Hope you like it! :)

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**Holmes**

"Watson? _Watson_?" This last is a hiss as I release my breath between my teeth. He is still again, so still, and I quickly check his pulse. For a moment I panic—_I can't find it!_—and then I feel the thready, weak throbbing that tells me that my life is not yet meaningless.

"You are not allowed to die, Watson," I continue through clenched teeth. "I-I forbid it!" My emotional statement sounds utterly foolish, even to me, but I continue speaking because he moans a little and moves his head. Perhaps he can hear me. "Don't _you_ give up, don't you dare."

My voice—as well as the hand that holds his—is shaking, and I run my free hand through my hair, taking a deep breath.

At least I've been able to get a glass of water in him, though at the rate he is sweating, he shall have it all out momentarily. He needs more water, but he is shuddering so heavily that I will not be able to get him to drink any without choking him.

The only thing I can do is to try and cool him down, so I continue my regimen with the towels and the cool water, but he still is so hot, so ill. His entire body is shaking with the chills and his breathing is alarming; too fast and too shallow. I cannot seem to help him one whit!

His trembling turns worse as he moans and thrashes violently, almost convulsively. I throw myself on his shoulders, trying to keep him still, and I listen in consternation as his breathing becomes more and more strained.

"Hold on, just hold on and breathe, Watson, I know it's hard, but keep holding on."

I am an utter failure. I cannot help him; I do not even know what to _say_ to him. Watson has oft times said that the friends and family of an ill person, speaking regularly to them, can make all the difference in a patient's recovery, but I've certainly never asked him what in the devil the loved ones say!

Sighing, I pinch my forehead. I am not at all proficient in this sort of thing, but this is my Watson, who needs me, so I keep talking, hardly caring what I am saying. "Hold on, old chap, easy now. I'm here, calm down, I'm here."

--

**Watson**

_I am wet and cold, but there is an odd sensation of heat flickering over me. I open my eyes and realize that this is probably because I am in the middle of the ocean and there is a large ship on fire only a few feet away from me. It is not one of the newer steam ships, it is all wood with large sails, sails that have broken loose of their confines and now flap over my head. I look up, watching the burning sails rain ash and fire down upon me like a grey, hopeless sky. _

_Suddenly I can hear Holmes, I can hear his voice, it sounds tormented, which frightens me—Holmes is _never_ anguished—but his voice is so far away and I cannot seem to find him. I squint; I can hardly see through the smoke that floats over the water like fog, and I do not know where I am, where _he_ is, but I can tell by his voice that he is upset, that he needs me, and I have to reach him._

_Where is he? _

_There—so far, so far away from me in the sea, he's drowning, we are drowning. "No," I shout, swimming toward him against a current that threatens to pull me under._

--

**Holmes**

It appears that my words are predictably not helping him; though his thrashing has calmed down momentarily, his unconscious face is awash with agony. His expression is one of such profound misery that I falter as I splash the water on him, and I clasp his shoulder tightly before I continue to rewet the towels.

"Don't leave, Watson—" I stop for a moment, surprised at my words—I really _am_ unrecognizable as my self—but I shake my head as he emits a groan and I continue my monologue. "Hold on, stay with me."

He reaches out blindly, striking out, and collapses back limply. "N-no," he whispers, his voice chapped and raw.

I stop my administrations long enough to take his hand and squeeze it, saying, "It's alright, Watson, easy," to let him know that I am here, although I doubt he realizes it; I doubt he can hear me at all.

Awkwardly, softly, I dab water onto his face. For a moment I simply look at him, look at this man that is dearer to me than anyone else, this man who could have been dead, who could be dying…and I am shaking again, not merely with agitation or fear for Watson, but with rage, with weakness. I can taste it in my mouth, this helplessness, and it is bitter, bitter and foul.

Watson seems to have gained rather than lost heat, and so I put the thermometer back in his mouth, wary so that he doesn't choke. How can it be he seems worse to me? Listless.

I stare at the thermometer, which is becoming my enemy—nearly as much so as the clock outside. 104.5 degrees.

--

**Watson**

_I swim as hard as I can, straining my bad shoulder, aching my bad leg, but I do not care, I swim towards Holmes. I'm not fast enough—the ship collapses and the mast strikes me in the side, bouncing off my ribs, and I cry out just as another chunk of debris slams into my face. _

_I flounder in the water, and at first there is no pain, though there is pressure everywhere; I feel as if the entire ocean is crushing me in its grip. _

"_Watson!" I hear Holmes voice, calling for me, pleading with me._

_And then the pain comes fully, deep and ugly and suffocating me just as surely as the ocean will. I become aware of blackness, blackness hovering over me, and all I have to do is stop fighting, stop struggling, and I will go to the dark place and I won't hurt anymore…_

_Odd about the screaming—I can hear Holmes even though I am under the water and he is above. I hope he realizes, knows, that he is my best friend, another brother to me, and that he always shall be._

--

**Holmes**

Watson opens his eyes and looks at me, and though his eyes are clouded over with fever, he seems to see me. "A-Always." His hand clamps mine and it is in a nearly hysterical verge of panic that I realize he is saying goodbye.

"No! Watson, _no_!" I no longer care that my voice is raised, that it is raw with emotion. "Stay with me, please—stay with me."

His eyes close and his breathing is uneven, his skin still flushed. I keep a firm grip on his hand and I pull it up to clutch it in both of mine, wishing—no, _willing_ him to stay with me. And I so something that I generally would not consider; I pray, I pray and grip his hand and I say, "I will not, in any circumstances, allow you to die. I-I have need of you, Watson! You _cannot_ leave me."

--

**Watson**

_"No! Watson, no!" Holmes' voice is so panicked that I hesitate, stop letting myself sink down into the dark." I-I have need of you, Watson! You _cannot_ leave me."_

_He is frightened. _Holmes_ is frightened. The idea staggers me and I look upward to see him on the surface of the water, clinging to part of the shattered vessel. He will not be able to hold on much longer. _

_I have to help him, I must help him. I ignore the seemingly endless pain and I fight the current dragging me downward into the dark, fight it and try to head to the surface, to Holmes._

--

**Holmes**

Oh I know now, I know what Watson felt when he screamed my name at the falls, staring at the surging water in vain.

_This is your punishment, _a dark voice inside my head whispers. _This is what you get in retaliation for what you did. The price of your reappearance will be Watson's death, and this time, there won't be a chance for redemption._

I cut the voice off with an extreme effort and blink back tears and continue calling my only friend's name, continue pleading with him, continue my effort to cool his internal thermometer. In desperation, I even add Miss Samira's bundle of dead plants to the pile of wet towels covering Watson.

He shudders once, twice, and his hand tightens around mine before it goes limp. Alarmed, I watch his chest—pray God that he is breathing—and I see with relief that he is and in fact, seems to be breathing easier.

After a few minutes of anxious watching—the deuced water in my eyes does nothing to help the clarity of my vision—his shivering diminishes. Shaking the blasted thermometer again, I hurry to take his temperature.

Another few moments of tortured waiting and I pull the thermometer out of his mouth and hold it up. The line of mercury ends lower than the 103.5 mark. Already Watson's temperature is down more than one degree.

I feel an unbidden emotion fly through my chest giddily and I clamp down on it—it is hope, and hope is dangerous.

Perhaps his fever just spiked, reaching its highest, perhaps it will continue to fall if I am diligent with the cooling process. I ignore the pessimistic voice that whispers, _And perhaps you will fail him again and his temperature will fluctuate until he dies._

"You did it, you fought hard." It is awfully hard to speak around this newest lump in my throat. "Keep fighting, Watson, I will be here, fighting with you."

Indeed, I will not leave his side. Now all we have to do is make it through the rest of the night.


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's Note: **Still own only Samira and other OCs, not Watson, Holmes, or Mrs. Hudson. Or Lestrade or Gregson _et all_.

Well, I am updating as fast as I can for you guys. I am leaving for a trip for my residency in graduate school in a week--I will be gone from July 1 or 2 through the 15. I really doubt that I'll be able to update during that time, just a warning.

Hopefully you'll enjoy this next bit, it will be, I think, a breath of relief for you all. :) Thank you every single person who has reviewed--you guys are the driving force behind my updates. As always, thanks for reviewing me! I really appreciate it. (a hug to all you readers)

Hmm, maybe I'll work on my challenge fic now...

I've added a disclaimer at the bottom...

* * *

**Holmes**

I watch him for two hours, making sure to regularly re-wet the cool cloths and to comfort him when he is in the grips of a nightmare. Watson's teeth have finally stopped chattering and I let out a sigh of relief when I see that his shivering also seems to have lessened.

_Please_, I repeat silently, _please_, as I shake the thermometer. His temperature must be down, it simply _must_… His symptoms are abating, so _surely_ the temperature is down? I nearly miss Watson's mouth when I try to put the instrument in and so I take a long moment to get a hold of myself. No _wonder_ I hate emotional situations so, this is maddening!

Finally I get the blasted thing in the correct spot and I lean back in the chair, taking a deep breath. It is the waiting for this deuced thing that is so horrible—perhaps I ought to experiment with finding a quicker method of temperature taking. Really, though, I should be grateful to Sir Thomas Allbutt for inventing the clinical thermometer and thus reducing the waiting time for a thermometer from twenty minutes to five.

Still, three hundred seconds seems like a grievously long wait and I try to distract myself by considering different ways one could improve upon the thermometer, but my heart is not in it. It seems I cannot get Watson out of my mind even for a moment.

Finally, it is time to take the thermometer out and I do so, but I hesitate before I read the results. Again, another act not typical for me—generally I'm not the hesitant sort—but my Boswell's very life could rest on the result of this temperature taking. If it has once again risen—I shudder at the thought.

So far I have not entirely released the hidden, deep pain I can feel stirring in me, but if Watson dies I will not have even the vestiges of control. The thought of losing him and of losing all restraint is dreadfully disturbing—I have always been one to control my self and try and control the circumstances around me. I cannot, however, control the results of this temperature taking, but I glare at the thermometer anyway, willing it to coincide with my needs. There is nothing else to do, so I hold it up and read it.

It's just over 102. We've done it. We've made it past what I believe is the crisis point.

"Watson, your temperature is coming down," I blurt out with enthusiasm before I think. "We've done it, my dear fellow, _you've_ done it! You'll be fine now, fine."

It's foolish, really, to speak excitedly to one who is not even aware, but I feel rather happy, overjoyed in fact, and I want to share it with him. He's beating it. He's fighting the fever.

This feeling is strange—it's better than solving a case satisfactorily. _Much_ better.

So much better that I can't help but think that as long as Watson is alive, I could give up everything else in my life. A staggering thought, even now, but I can feel the arcane truthfulness of it. We are…attached somehow…attuned to each other in a most unusual way.

I do not believe I want to ponder these feelings over much—I am content enough merely to deal with the rest of this emotional nonsense if it means that I get to have Watson by my side.

With his fever down and his shuddering subsiding, it is now or never when it comes to trying to get him to take some more water, so I pour some into the glass, spilling a little onto the wash stand with atypical clumsiness. I pull my chair as close as possible to the bed and sit down. He stirs as I gently put my arm under his neck and support his head.

"Some water for you, Watson. Please try and drink, you need the fluid."

He groans expressively and his eyelids move, and I know he can hear me. I lift the glass to his lips and lean it forward, just a little, and he swallows. After several drinks, his lashes flutter and he looks up at me.

His hazel gaze is as clear as I have seen it in quite some time and in my surprise to see him so cognizant, I tip the glass further forward than I mean to and he begins coughing. Mortified, I set aside the glass and pat his back gingerly, only letting him back down to the pillow when he has ceased to cough.

"S-so…" His voice is still weak, but it sounds less like two pieces of glass paper rubbing together than it did before. "You tell me…I'll be fine…then...ch-choke me to death."

Watson grins at me, a sickly, pale, I'm-smiling-because-I'm-alive grin, but a grin nonetheless and I return the smile, taking the hand he holds out in mine.

"It is good to hear your voice, Watson, when you aren't delirious or saying your farewells."

He croaks out a laugh. "'Least I had a _r_-_reason_ to be fr-frantic..."

At one point in time I would have been offended or, at the least, embarrassed, at his words. But we have gone through a lot together tonight, and while I may never let down all my walls for anyone—not even Watson—he has seen the inside of more of my barriers than anyone else ever will. Besides, I am so relieved he is well and his eyes are sparkling with such humor and fondness that I can merely shake my head at him.

"In all seriousness," I say soberly. "How do you feel? Do you have a lot of pain?"

Ever the doctor, Watson considers my question earnestly, obviously going through a checklist of symptoms in his head. "I can handle the pain…and I feel…better."

I look dubiously at him. "You are still not looking your best."

"Thank you, Holmes," he replies and I color slightly. "I am not; in all honesty…" he takes a deep breath, the talk evidently tiring even his supreme reserves of strength. "Feeling well at all, but I still feel better than I did."

That I can understand that perfectly. Before—before he had been close to dying. Watson's eyes droop but he shakes himself out of exhaustion, focusing on my face.

"You had best sleep now, I think," I say quietly. Thank God it will be sleep for once, and not a semi comatose state.

"Only if…if you will, too."

"Not tonight, Watson," I say softly. "I couldn't possibly sleep tonight."

He frowns. "Tomorrow, then? And…and you'll eat something, too?"

The good Doctor is very easily one of the most selfless people I've ever met. And one of the most stubborn, for that matter. "I'll sleep sometime tomorrow," I reply, because I can see it is necessary. "And I'll eat something if you do."

He nods sleepily, his fingers relaxing in mine. "H'mes?"

"Yes, Watson?"

"Thank…you…" and he is asleep.

_No Watson_, I think to myself, _thank _you_._

* * *

**Added Disclaimer**--Hmm, I just read KCS' brilliant rewriting of 3GAR and I just realized this chapter basically ends in the same way as her did--twas not intentional, I swear I had it written before I read her fic! Sorry K, great minds think alike, I guess.


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's Note: **Aha! Another chapter up. And to build up suspense--(ducks as rotten veggies fly)--we're going to Samira's view!

Suspense isn't the main reason, actually, it's because of her location at the moment and what she can hear... You'll have to read to find out. The large section of italics occurs in the past.

I hope you like this! Lemme know what you think. R+R's appreciated. :)

H+W aren't mine, Samira and Bao Yu and Jack are.

* * *

**Samira**

You are in the kitchen at a small table, watching Mrs. Hud-son bustle about and prepare the first meal of the day. She has given you a bowl of soup and you sit still, taking sips and spoonfuls of broth and thinking about the Doctor and Mr. Holmes.

You do not like spoons—you've never used one before and who wants to put metal in one's mouth?—but Mrs. Hud-son looks so happy when you use it that you continue. It is wonderful broth, it is the best broth you have ever tasted, it is the _only_ broth you have ever tasted, but it tastes that much better because it has come from a kind and caring woman. They are absolutely nothing alike except for benevolence, but still she reminds you of your mother.

You are just pondering the merits of asking her permission to go upstairs to see if Dr. Wat-son and Mr. Holmes are all right, when all of a sudden there is a horrible loud ringing noise. It is the sound of bells and you quickly stand up. _Is there fire? _The last time you heard a noise like that was when so many of the other girls died in the fire in the city. The ones that were chained could not get free in time.

Mrs. Hudson sees your reaction. "It's alright, dear, it's only the door." You slowly sit back down and she smiles. "I'll be right back, Miss Samira. You finish that broth, mind."

As she flurries out of the room you drop the spoon quickly, pick the bowl up between your fingers and take several long sips. There is nothing wrong with eating how you like when no one can see.

In the entryway, you hear Mrs. Hudson open the door. "Good morning, sir. How can I be of service?"

"'Ello, Mrs., a good day to yer. I was just wonderin'…" That voice, that rough, essentially male voice is familiar.

"Yes?" Mrs. Hudson sounds patient.

"Do yer 'appen to know iffa woman by the name o' Samira Sakda is available?" You are positive now—you know that voice.

"Who?" Mrs. Hudson asks. She knows your name but she pretends she does not.

"Samira Sakda. Young girl, skinny, a Chink, shorter than yer." At his words you inwardly rail, _I am no Chinese!_, but you continue listening, worried.

"I am sorry, sir, but there is no one of that name or description at this residence. It is just me, my lodgers, and my maid."

You marvel at the landlady, she does not falter as she lies, her voice remains steady. The man—the man whose voice you recognize—laughs, sounding absolutely mirthless.

And then you remember the time you met that man with the deeply masculine voice. _He_ had not yet moved you to his own house then; you had still lived in the city with the other girls. It was right after Bao Yu had died, leaving you alone in the little, two cot room you shared that always smelled of urine. Lian was already dead and had been for a while and you did not care if you died. Bao Yu, although she told on you when you tried to escape because she was afraid, she was the one who forced you to eat, to drink, to survive.

A few days after Bao Yu had died, the man who is speaking to Mrs. Hudson came in to your room…

_The man who walks in makes you think of flint—strong and hard and unbreakable, but ready always to spark into fire. He stares at Bao Yu's bed and then at you. You are wary. Both of you, actually, are guarded, watching each other._

"_Is Bow-yew 'ere?" He finally asks. _

_You shake your head silently. Possibly you are not able to talk—you have not had anything to drink or eat anything in the two days Bao Yu has not been here to make you. _

"_Wha' yer mean? Where is she?" His voice is full of sparks and you can tell that soon his flint will burn to life._

"_Wh-" Your voice cracks and he hands you the untouched water pitcher that has been sitting there for two days. You take a drink—it is foul and you may die of poisoning. "Why you want her?"_

"_Bow-yew's my reg'lar girl, my swee'hear', as it were." His eyes are hard, but they are not lying. _

"_Bao Yu…is in spirit world."_

_The hardness of his eyes changes and suddenly the door to his face closes. "Wha'? Bow-yew…is dea'? 'Ow?_

_What to tell him? You look down, not knowing whether to tell him the truth. His manner has changed and he no longer looks so hard, he looks…almost sad. Grief and you are well acquainted—you will never be rid of Grief—but still you hesitate._

"_She die…of," You pause, trying to find the right word. "Infection. In wrist."_

"'_Er wris'? 'E didn't lock 'er up ag'in, did 'e?"_

"_Yes."_

_And his long string of curses and the way he stomps around the room tell you that he had cared for her, in his own way, as much as a man like him could care about anyone. _

"_I am sorry." And you _are_ sorry, but that does not mean you trust him. He will take from you what he wanted from her._

"_Wha's yer name?" He asks suddenly. "I'm Jack. Jack Uden."_

"_Samira Sakda." It did not occur to you to lie, but as you say your name you wish you had._

"_Oh, Samira, Bow-yew spoke well of yer. Look, 'ere." Jack meets your eyes. "I pai' my coin and I mean ter ge' me shillin's worth."_

_Readying yourself for a fight, you stare at him._

_He pulls a satchel from over his shoulder and reaches in it. You tense, expecting so many bad things—anything the men bring is always bad—but all he does is pull out a shirt. "Can yer sew?"_

"_What?"_

"_Yer can sew, can't yer?"_

_Finally you answer. "Yes."_

"_Bow-yew always did my mendin'. Tha' an' other things… As yer a frien' of 'ers, nothin' else'd feel righ'. So, go on an' mend away."_

_He reached in the pack again and handed you a small pouch that held a needle and thread._

You had sewed the shirt for him and when he left, he did not take back the needle. At first you thought he'd forgotten it, but when he said goodbye he looked at you strangely and wished you lots of luck and later you thought maybe he left it as a gift for the friend of his sweetheart. You used the needle to pick the lock on the window and get free. You broke an ankle in the fall—_he_ always made sure you were not on first floor—but you escaped for several days, and in this way you were able to search for Lian's remains.

Nevertheless, hearing Jack now, you can only think of how he is associated with _him_, despite any past kindness he might have shown you.

"Rilly? On'y yer lodgers, yerself, an' a maid live 'ere?" Jack asks.

"Yes sir," Mrs. Hud-son responds. "I'm afraid I can't help you any further."

You hear him push the door open and you hear the landlady gasp and you stand, ready to help her.

"Sir!" She cries.

"Don' ge' upset and don' raise yer voice. I'm 'ere ter give 'er a frien'ly warnin'. In my line o' work yer 'ave ter know thin's. I 'eard from sev'ral sources tha' when a certain man gets back in town, this man'll be int'rested to 'ear Samira escaped wif a man name of Dr. Wa'son an' that 'is par'ner Crawford's dead. Now most o' the men didn't seem ter rec'gnize the name Dr. Wa'son, but I 'appen to know the Doctor is a frien' of a Mr. 'Olmes and I 'appen to know Mr. 'Olmes is a det'ctive. I also know ei'er Samira is 'ere or the blokes know where she is—no, don't say a wor'."

Mrs. Hudson had made a noise as if to talk.

"I'm an ole 'quantince of Samira's, through a mut'al frien'. Le' 'er know she 'as ten days. Ten days afore 'e's back. None o' the men'll act till he tells 'em wha' ter do. But when 'e 'is back I know 'e'll go af'er 'er and prolly Dr. Watson fer bein' invo'ved with Crawford. I jes'…wan'ed to le' 'er know ter be careful. If _I_ knew about the Doctor an' Mr. Holmes an' where she is, yer can be sure 'e will, too. Ten days."

"As I told you sir, I know of no person named –what was it? Serena Sakba?" Mrs. Hud-son, to her credit, has remained calm.

"Yer a goo' woman, Mrs. 'Ave a goo' day now." Jack says, and you hear the door close behind him.

Ten days? You shakily walk out into the entryway. Mrs. Hudson is still standing there. "Oh, Miss Samira."

"Mrs. Hud-son, I am sorry." You look at your feet—it is your fault, it is always your fault.

"You heard that, dear?"

"Yes, I hear," you reply softly, ashamed. "Thank you."

"For what?" She is absolutely incredulous.

"For saying I am no here."

"Do you _know_ that horrible man?"

"Yes. He is no friend but he is no enemy."

She stares you up and down and put her hands on her hips. "Ten days until some man comes after you and the Doctor—_what_ is going on?"

"I must talk to Mr. Holmes."

She sighs. "Certainly, but not now. First I'm going to check on Dr. Watson and then I'm going to try and get them both to eat something. After that, you can say whatever you want."

You are grateful to her for her take charge manner. After all, if you wait it will give you time to think of what to say and how to say it. How much of story should you tell?


	27. Chapter 27

**Author's Note: **Another update before I go! Now we're back to Holmes. And to some light hearted moments--they are much needed, I think. Especially as Samira's tale is coming up...

Anyway, as I said I shall be gone from July1-15 for school and I doubt if I'll be able to update then. Hence the updates now!

Hope you like this, it's nice to be able to write something a little less dramatic, for once. Holmes has been crotchedy lately and it took me forever to wring this chapter out of him so let me know how you like it! Thanks for reading and reviewing, everyone!

* * *

**Holmes**

Watson has been steadily improving. He thrashed much less during the night and only woke up needing morphine once. Now that the long night vigil is over, and his breathing has improved, I can feel a great pressure coming off of me bit by bit; it as though I can breathe in deeply, fully, for the first time.

All of these heavy emotions are draining as well as dangerous, self destructive, and illogical. I feel utterly wrung out. And yet, when I think of how close I was to losing Watson and when I see him resting easily now, I can feel myself nearly smiling with dizzy relief. Only nearly, of course. I am not so indulgent as to actually act on these ridiculous impulses.

Shifting, Watson lets out a small sigh and I am lean forward, immediately attentive. He doesn't stir again, but I keep watch. Making sure that he has no further physical ramifications is the least I can do as I am certain my attempts to comfort and reassurance him psychologically have been severely lacking.

Although I am relieved that he shows every signs of recovering, I am not relaxed. My Boswell is still so very weak and it will be a long time before he regains his strength. I sincerely hope that the danger Miss Samira spoke of is far in coming, but I strongly doubt it. I shall have to make preparations.

Watson's eyelids flutter and open and he smiles upon seeing me at his bedside. I dislike how pale he seems, in contrast to the fiery complexion he had whilst fevered, and the lines upon his face indicate he is still in a great deal of pain. He mumbles something.

"What?"

"Good morning." Watson replies hoarsely. At the dry, scratchy sound of his voice, I pour out a glass of water. "I…I can manage the water on my own, if you help me sit up," he says softly, obviously uncomfortable at appearing weak.

If only he knew how much that I, on the contrary, admire his strength! But of course I can not, do not, tell him so.

Instead, I help him into a sitting position and prop several pillows behind his back. As soon as he is comfortably settled, I hand him the glass, surreptitiously watching him drink so that I am prepared in the event that he requires assistance. To his credit, Watson is able to finish the water on his own. After draining it, he leans back and takes a deep breath.

"You were not hurt, Holmes?"

I furrow my brows as I look at him. "No. Really, dear fellow, you must get these selfless inclinations under control. This whole incident started when you tried to help a stranger, after all."

That is as close as I will go toward chiding him—at least until he feels better. Of course, if he had _not_ stopped to help Samira, he would not be my Watson. Still, I hope he realizes that I am not the only one of the two of us that has self-destructive tendencies.

He frowns at my words and at first I think I have injured his feelings. I am backtracking, trying to discern what I've said, when he continues. "I think…I think there may be more to it, Holmes. I'm not sure it _did_ start when I helped Samira…"

I observe him keenly—he seems to be struggling for a memory. "You did mention a message of some kind, last night."

"I…I can't remember!" He winces as the forcefulness of his own words that have no doubt increased his headache.

"Easy, Watson. There's no rush—we'll figure this out in due time."

To my surprise, he looks up at me and laughs. "First time I've ever heard _you_ telling _me_ not to worry, that we'd figure out the case eventually."

I smile ruefully at his remark, which is certainly true. "You shouldn't strain yourself trying to remember everything, you know. You're still not in the best of health."

He snorts and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, 'You don't have to tell _me_ that, _I'm_ the doctor.' Then he rubs his forehead gingerly, and looks up at me again. "Samira _is_ still here, I hope?"

"She's in Mrs. Hudson's care which, I am sure, is better than my own."

He chuckles at my attempt at humor—these sorts of scenes always fluster me and it seems rather horrible that I do so much better expressing how much I value Watson when he is unconscious.

The doctor—he always remains the doctor—probes curiously at his ribs and then gasps. "At least two are broken," he mutters, then looks up at me, pain still evident in his face. "Holmes. You'd better eat something today."

Really, one would think I was the one who nearly died. I am torn between admiration, frustration, and respect for this man who has managed somehow to become what I believe is the only chink in my otherwise flawless armor.

"What else happened? My…my memory is still a little shaky… You were on a case, I know, that poor murdered woman…but I haven't the foggiest notion why _I_ was by the docks."

"We can fill in the particulars later. Right now you need to regain your strength and get some rest." I start to stand so I can call down to Mrs. Hudson for some soup for Watson, but I hear her steps on the stairs. Really, that woman _can_ be most invaluable.

"I'll sleep and eat when you do," he replies. His expression fades into a more open, serious one. "Holmes…I meant it when I said thank you. If…if it wasn't for you…I may not have made it through the night."

I wave off his words hurriedly, before he says something else that will pry off the mask of control that I have slowly been regaining.

"A most romantic notion, Watson—an indication, I believe, that you are assuredly feeling better."

He smiles, but he seems a little hurt. I really _am_ deucedly bad at this, and I feel like I must say something. "I am glad if I was of assistance. You—you really had me worried, old fellow."

A quiet knock on the door blessedly interrupts any further sentiments on either of our parts.

"Mr. Holmes?" Mrs. Hudson whispers. "Oh, Doctor!" Our landlady, who alternatively can be a soft touch while also occasionally being made of iron, rushes over to the bed and takes Watson's hand in hers and squeezes it. "It's so nice to see you awake."

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," Watson says, smiling at her warmth.

"Do you think you are up to eating some broth?"

"If it wouldn't be any trouble to you, that sounds lovely," he replies.

"I've already got it made and in your sitting room," she replies with a fond smile. She turns to me and her face becomes serious. "And I've brought some breakfast for you, Mr. Holmes, which I trust you will eat."

I glare at Watson, who is smirking at me behind Mrs. Hudson's back.

"Very well," I say shortly.

"It's at the table. Doctor, I'll bring in your tray."

I glance at Watson, slightly uneasy at the prospect of leaving him alone to eat. Surely I could just grab some toast and eat in the room with him…

Mrs. Hudson is staring at me in disapproval as though she can discern my thought processes. "No, Mr. Holmes, you need to sit and take a rest and eat at the table for once in your life, sir." She shakes her head at me as I start to protest. "I insist. I shall remain in here with the Doctor while he is eating and afterward I shall administer his medicines and all that." She must read my expression because she harrumphs. "I believe I am _quite_ proficient at changing bandages and the like after having _you two_ as lodgers, sir, so you shan't have to worry about that either. Now go and eat and take a must needed rest."

Watson is grinning tiredly at me and I let out a sigh that sounds a great deal more annoyed than I actually feel.

"I'll just get the tray," she says, hurrying out of the room.

"Infernal woman," I mutter, more out of habit than actual exasperation.

Watson is still smiling at me and I feel my gaze soften; to think that I had almost lost him! "We're lucky to have her," he says softly.

"…Indeed."

Our landlady returns carrying a tray with tea and soup on it. "Go on Mr. Holmes, shoo. Your breakfast will be getting cold. Besides," she gives me a singular look. "I believe Miss Samira would like to speak with you. The Doctor and I shall be quite all right."

I nod—there is nothing for it but for me to leave the room as that woman is staring at me fixedly and Watson is smirking under his mustache. If he has the energy to grin so, he must be feeling a little better. No doubt getting some food into his system will help, too. Besides, I did promise to eat when Watson does, and if Miss Samira is ready to divulge some much needed information perhaps this 'rest' will not be an entire waste of time after all.


	28. Chapter 28

**Author's Note: **Well, I'm almost totally packed and ready to go! (Yeah, I know, talk about last minute preparations...) So, I thought, why not put up this chapter? Depending on how the rest of packing goes (I leave eaaaaaaarly tommorrow morning) I might get to update some more and finish Samira's story... But I make no promises. ;)

If I don't get to talk to you guys again, thanks a ton for all the reviews and for reading! I really appreciate it. Hence why I'm typing and submitting this rather than finishing packing... lol.

(hugs to all)

* * *

**Samira**

You are still sitting at the kitchen table, but now you are mending a few of Mrs. Hud-son's clothes. Mostly you are stitching because you want to wait before you go upstairs so that both Mr. Holmes and Dr. Wat-son can finish eating. After finishing your broth, you looked for something to do while you wait that would help repay Mrs. Hud-son for her kindness and you found her sewing basket so the problem was solved.

The act of sewing soothes you immensely—which is one of the reason's Jack's offer stunned you—because for a little while the world is only the needle, thread, and fabric, the needle going in and out, your concentration focused on that repetitive action of creating or fixing, and that alone. You love to sew. It is nice to have the world disappear into a blur, you like to forget, if only for a short time.

After you have repaired two torn hems, you hear Mrs. Hudson coming down the steps. You sit your sewing aside and wait for her.

"Why, Samira, you needn't have done my mending," she exclaims, her face brightening as she carries the tray full of dirty dishes to the counter.

"I like to sew," you reply softly.

"That's well and good, but shouldn't you be resting?"

A smile flickers on and off your face like lantern light. "I am fine, I feel much better after eating and after you fixed me this morning."

At first you had been leery to strip in front of this woman, to expose your injuries, your multitude of scars. After all, while in general you would not mind people asking questions, for some reason Mrs. Hud-son's curiosity or disgust upon seeing the marks on your back would deeply hurt you. You needn't have worried; she had winced and clucked sympathetically and tended you gently and treated you to tea—tea with _sugar_ in it, real sugar and even milk. There was no sign of repulsion.

"I'm glad, dear." She searches your face. "You look a little better this morning."

"Mrs. Hud-son…" You would like to ask her a question, but you hate for her to think you are asking for a favor. "I am good seam-stress and can clean well and…and am strong worker, so if I…end up near here for while…do you know of place I could work?" She has a peculiar look on her face as you continue. "I do no wish to trouble you, I would just like place for job so I can pay you for days I have stayed—"

"I'm hoping you'll be more than nearby for a while yet— I was hoping you'd stay here at least until you're recovered. The maid's room, where you bedded down last night, is unoccupied, as is her job. If you're determined to pay me back, you can work for room and board, plus a little extra for the mending work I might have you do. Does that sound fair?"

For a second you cannot find your voice. "Yes…" You have a strong urge to hug her, to cry on her shoulder, to call out_ Mother_! Instead you do nothing but smile gratefully. "_Kha poon cup_," you realize you haven't spoken in English. "Thank you very much."

"You're welcome, love. And, Samira," she adds, suddenly stern. "You are not to start until you are more recovered. I'll let you know when I think you are."

At a loss for words, you merely nod. Oh, you selfishly wish you could stay here! But you should not, you should leave…

On seeing your troubled face, Mrs. Hud-son asks, with a hesitant smile, if you'd like an advance for the mending. You can tell she is trying to coax you into happiness, so you reply teasingly. "No, thank you. I will no charge you for services…" You smile. "At _this_ time."

She laughs and then looks serious as you both hear footsteps upstairs. "Are you going to talk to Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, I go now."

"Keep the dressing gown on, then," she says, and you excuse yourself and climb the steps into the sitting room.

Mr. Holmes is sitting in a chair looking into empty fireplace and—and he is smoking a pipe! You inhale; how odd you should be reminded of Mother so much lately, but you are, and you stand there smelling the pipe and reminiscing until he puts it down on seeing you and extinguishes it.

"Pardon my smoking," he says.

"It is no problem, I like it." You glance toward the bedroom where the doctor is. "Dr. Wat-son is well?"

"He looks much better this morning." Mr. Holmes meets your eyes and you do not look away from his grey, penetrating stare. "You wish to speak to me?"

Nodding, you hesitate before saying, "And—and to doctor…if he is well enough to hear."

Mr. Holmes frowns, but he holds your gaze and you have the uncomfortable feeling that he has divined one of the strongest reasons you want to include Dr. Wat-son—because you are not even the slightest bit afraid of the doctor, because you are comfortable with him, because it will be easier to tell your story with him there than it would be to tell it to Mr. Holmes alone.

"I _was_ going to give him some morphine after I smoked so that he could rest some more," Mr. Holmes finally says.

"I've slept all morning, Holmes. If Samira wants to talk to us, then tell her to come on, before I'm too tired," Dr. Wat-son calls from the bedroom and you smile as Mr. Holmes mumbles something about 'eavesdropping.'

"Well, come along, then," he says to you and heads into the bedroom. "Watson, you're sure you are up to an extended talk?" The concern in his voice makes you smile a little—you find yourself less and less intimidated by Mr. Holmes the more you see him with the doctor. It is as though Dr. Wat-son brings out the softness in him, softness that is hidden otherwise.

"Certainly, Holmes, no need to fuss," the doctor replies, smiling as his friend colors a little and frowns at his words. There is a pang in your chest upon seeing their interaction—if only you _could_ fuss over Lian! And yet, seeing Mr. Holmes and Dr. Wat-son's relationship also makes you happy; it is good to have irrevocable love and you are not selfish enough to begrudge them theirs.

"Doctor, I am glad," you say, hurrying over to him. "You are well."

Immediately you sit carefully down next to him on the bed, being sure that you do not jar him. He looks surprised at your chosen seat, but not unpleased. You should not, maybe, show your affection for him—if you show your feelings they are always used against you—but the gentleness of his eyes recalls Lian's and so you cannot help it.

As you sit down, Mr. Holmes makes a cough that sounds somewhat like a laugh and he and the doctor share a look that puzzles you—Mr. Holmes' expression is wry.

"Thank you, Samira," Dr. Wat-son replies. "And how are you feeling?" He looks you up and down just as Dr. Michener and Mrs. Wat-son did, but you feel that Dr. Watson is more thorough. "Your coloring has certainly improved—you are no longer quite so pale."

"I feel much better—Mrs. Hud-son makes good broth. You, too, seem more well."

Mr. Holmes clears his throat and this time it is you and the doctor that exchange a look, but you take the hint. "I will finish what I start to tell you, Mr. Holmes, but first I must say what happened today."

The thin detective takes a seat at the chair by the bedside, across from you, and looks at you sharply. "Today?"

"Yes. Early in morning, there was man at door."

"I heard the bell," Mr. Holmes murmurs. "I had hoped it was one of Mrs. Hudson's deliveries."

"No," you say softly. "Man asked for me."

Dr. Wat-son widens his eyes in surprise but Mr. Holmes merely looks as though his suspicions have been confirmed. You take a deep breath and begin.


	29. Chapter 29

**Author's Note: **Hey guys, thanks for saying you'd wait for me! It means a lot. And now that I'm all ready--except for my lap top, which I'm typing on--I'm going to update again. If by a miracle any hotel I stay in on the way to school has wireless access perhaps you'll hear from me again before Sunday. No promises, though.

So here's the first part of Samira's story. (Yes, sorry, this isn't all of it in one go.) BTW, I created Samira's story (though of course things like this could have and do happen) but I must say a bit of it was inspired by the back story of a character Margaret Atwood created. Still, Samira's story is her own, though this whole process started after I thought about the interviews I watched in a college class that were with women and girls who had escaped or were rescued from Samira's predicament. Just thought I'd put that in...

I must warn you, this chapter has some rather unpleasant subject matter, but as always I do not go in depth with anything, er, unsavory (for lack of a better word) so the rating isn't changed. Violence is mentioned, sexual impositions are hinted at but not made explicit. And no, I don't own H+W or the unsinkable Mrs. Hudson. I do own Samira. I apologize in advance that this is rather sad... Okay. I think I'm done with the disclaimers... xD

Because I was missing him, this chapter is from Watson's POV even though all he is doing is listening to Samira and laying in bed right now. I thought you guys might want to hear from the poor chap, though, regardless. Thanks, as ever, for r+r-ing. If I don't see/hear from you guys again, then be well till we talk/you read me again and wish me a safe journey. Finally, Let me know what you of this chapter!!

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**Watson**

Miss Samira sums up what she heard during Mrs. Hudson's encounter with this Jack Uden fellow quickly and succinctly. I glance over at Holmes as she finishes her explanation of earlier events and, from long years of experience, I can tell a little of what he is thinking—_I shall have to ask Mrs. Hudson about the incident later, to see if there is anything Miss Samira left out_.

"How did you know this man, other than the fact that he was—a regular customer of Crawford's?" Holmes asks. I am glad he is using _some_ tact, for it is obvious the young lady is uncomfortable, though she occasionally pats my arm as if I am the one in need of reassurance.

"He was…ah…lover…of Bao Yu, girl who shared my room. After she died, he came for her and I told him she had passed on. I told him how she died—from infection," she says the word with the ease of practice, "that she get from being chained." Her voice is casual as she says this, as though it is a not unusual occurrence in the world she came from, and I am filled with sympathy. She has seen so many things she should not have. "Jack said he wanted his money's worth and so I mended his shirt."

We both just look at her—is that some strange sort of euphemism? But, no, she seems entirely sincere.

"Lit-er-ally," she says after a pause and after reading our expressions. "He said I was Bao Yu's friend, so he would no do nothing else. He let me keep needle. That is only time I saw him."

Holmes makes an interested sounding 'hmm,' but says nothing, waiting for her to continue, so I maintain my silence. I am glad Holmes waited to give me the morphine—already exhaustion is beginning to catch up with me and I have no doubt that I should be quite insensible if he had already given me the injection. The pain is there, growing steadily worse as I have been in an upright position for so long, but I am genuinely interested in what Samira has to say and I can tell she feels more comfortable with me than with Holmes, so I try and hide my discomfort. Nevertheless, I can tell I have not managed to hide my suffering from Holmes—he is watching me covertly. I meet his eyes and give him a small smile of reassurance, but the worried lines around his eyes do not fade.

"Dr. Wat-son, you _are_ well enough?" She has noticed our nonverbal communication and her voice is genuinely contrite.

I sigh. "I am _fine_." Though I am replying to Samira, I shoot a look at Holmes who gives me a wry, slightly irked smile.

Samira looks at me closely and either decides I look strong enough or at least stubborn enough for her to go on. "Mr. Holmes, I only told you how Shing, my step-father, was one who sold me and Lian after Mother died?" Holmes nods. "Then, Doctor, you are now caught up."

She takes another deep breath and I can see it is hard for her, so I will try my best to listen and not interrupt what I am sure will be a heart wrenching story. It is strange that I, who have seen so many deaths and horrendous sights, am leery of what she will say. In the war I saw thousands upon thousands of men die gruesomely—and I even saw some women and children perish in the same manner—and as horrendous as it was, it was war and I came to expect it. Not that I ever got used to it, of course, I merely learned to anticipate the worst and to block off my emotions as much as I could so that I could stay sane. Samira was not in the war; however, her sufferings were not ones that could be written off as an atrocity of warfare…

"It is strange to say this to you," she began. "Last person I told this to was Bao Yu, on night before she died. She asked for my story so she would know me in other world... I will try and tell this to you like I did to her. Once in while, parts are hard for me to remember. It is like…" Samira closes her eyes as if to better see beyond the present.

"It is like searching through fog on river at night... All is uncertain and dark and it is easy to lose way." She pauses. "After Shing sold me and Lian, we were trans-por-ted to man who took us to China. Boat ride there…it is all haze and sickness, I can no remember most of it other than darkness and bodies every where." Samira reaches out her hands to demonstrate and pantomimes her discovery that she was surrounded.

As horrible as I can tell this is going to be, it is clear to me that Samira truly has a gift for storytelling. Her accented voice, usually so unsure, is now smooth and rhythmic, assured of herself and matter of fact.

"When in China, we were sold to very old man. At least, he seemed so to us then—I was ten and Lian six—he seemed older than all men we had ever seen. Now, as I too am older, I think he was either fifty or sixty at most."

I cannot help but notice that she often says 'we,' including her sister in the tale. Always the two of them. It is as she said, when one is bound by _plong jai rak,_ 'you love person in way that makes it impossible to withdraw from relationship. It is lifelong commitment, it is binding as contract, you simply cannot quit.'

Samira has not quit her half of the bond between them merely because Lian is dead, much like the way I still held ours after I thought Holmes had perished at the Falls. I really cannot imagine life without Holmes even though I've already gone through it once. It is true that physically I survived Reichenbach, but part of me died that day. I received my salvation, at first, through gentle Mary who refused to let me give up, and then in Holmes' reappearance, which was the only thing that made me care to live again. If I were to lose him again…I do not wish to well on the topic. The point is that I must do something for this girl, she must find another reason to live…but, as I know too well, that will not be easy.

Holmes is watching Samira closely without any trace of an expression. Not for the first time, I envy his abilities as I turn back to her.

She continues the story in her pretty, melodic voice, saying that at first both she and Lian were terrified, but then they were taken to a pretty room with a lot of other women and girls. It had an odd smell, she says, that was a mix of perfume, body odor, and incense. No one spoke to them, except to say that Lian would stay with the young girls in the room because she was too young for work. Then, Samira says, she was less afraid; nothing would happen to her sister and she herself was a hard worker—surely she could make a good living for them.

"Room seemed big to me then, with fabric on each wall and mats and pillows all over floor, but it was no bigger than your room out there." She points to the sitting room. "Every where there were women and girls, though none of them looked at us. I ask them where we were and what would happen, but no one answered, no one looked at us. In that room it was silent, unless one whispered, which me and Lian did. Later, I honestly can no say if it was days or hours, I was called in to see old man and I was to come alone. It was first time me and Lian had been apart since we were sold and both of us cried heavily. Finally, servant pried us away from each other and took me to our new owner's room."

It is easy to picture the small, harem-like room full of indifferent women and the scared little girl Samira must have been—it is as if her words have transported me into her past. I can see her, still thin, like now—but not quite so starved—gangly, with large, widened eyes, clinging to her little sister with the desperation of one who has already lost everything else.

I glimpse at Holmes—he is listening intently, with none of his usual impatience for the person speaking to get to the relevant point showing. Perhaps he is concerned for her, as I am, or perhaps he is only curious. Regardless, I am glad it seems that he will not push her—I have a feeling that she has to tell us in her own way or not at all.

"I asked him if we were going to be married—" She interrupts herself with a sparkling, self-mocking laugh. "I thought I was to be one of his many wives. It was, at time, only explanation I had in my mind for room full of women. Our owner, who was named Ping Zheng, laughed at me. He said he had no plans for another wife, that his one was more than enough for him. And then he said he had thought of new game for me to play for him, and didn't I want to be good girl and make my new master happy?" She stops for a moment and looks at her hands, then gently puts her slim fingers on my wrist, again offering solace to someone else when she herself needs to be consoled.

For several long beats, the room remains silent. It seems Samira needs encouragement and when I look at Holmes he gives me a slight nod, so I ask, "What…what did he want you to do?"

Oh there are so many answers to that I would rather not hear! Holmes and I share a look and we are instanly in perfect understanding and sympathy with each other.

Samira looks at me and then at Holmes, her face a carefully, perfectly blank, well-practiced mask. It is just as good as, and in fact perhaps better, than the one Holmes' uses. After all, I have become able to occasionally read Holmes', but hers is utterly untranslatable to me.

"I was…his trap."

"What do you mean?" This time it is Holmes that asks the question and I can see in his grey eyes that he has already divined the answer.

"Zheng told me he was rich man with many friends. Every one knew he had prettiest, as he said, female pets in all of East, and every one knew, too, that we were not to be seen or touched by persons other than members of his household. Of course, all visitors wanted much to see his women and girls, but few did. On nights when he had male guests, I was to walk around garden and act 'young and innocent.' This was no hard for me at time," she says with an ironic lilt in her voice.

"If male guest went to garden and see me and ask if I was one of Zheng's pets, I was to say yes. If they ask me to come with them, I was to go and to do what they asked, no matter what. Eventually, one of his older women would come in room and pick me up and act angry that they were 'defiling' Zheng's girl. Men, of course, quickly would dress while women yelled and I…well, I watched. Every time, guest would give woman money, beg her for silence. Zheng got that money and whichever woman rescued me…she was allowed to be free from Zheng's…services…for month."

Samira blinks and seems to realize where she is and what she's been saying and she lets out a small, sad sigh that I can barely hear. "I was trap. I did no like it—I was afraid each time of what might happen—but I did as I was told without fight. Everyone knew girls who did no obey were killed, and I had Lian to think of. I had lied and said she was four—she always looked younger than she was with her round face—and as long as I did my part, Zheng said he would no touch her. I think it was then, that first time I see Zheng, that he told me everything has price. After I saw men caught in my trap pay money, I believed him." For the first time, her resolve seems to waver and she hesitates. "I-I thought, at time, since everything had cost, if I was good girl and obeyed and did no run away, I would be paying for Lian to stay safe…that what I did was price paid to keep her protected forever. It was silly, do you not think?" Her simple, self-deprecating words are full of unspoken grief.

"Samira," I say softly, carefully. I can tell that if I say the wrong thing she will instantly close in on herself, but the pain in her eyes will not allow me to remain silent. "You were only a child."

"…Yes…" she concedes quietly. "But Lian was much younger and I took on role of her mother as well as sister. I was responsible for her." Before I can respond, she continues. "We were lucky that we had each other… many others had no one, nothing. So I was all right until one day, no woman came into room where man had taken me. I ran, half dressed, to our room to get Lian. I could no leave without her. Other women caught us, beat me, and held me there until Zheng came for me later."

Holmes makes a slight, sympathetic murmur, which is rare for him. I myself gasp at her words. Rationally, I know the other women were afraid, that they were cruel to save themselves, but it is hard to exonerate them since two little girl's suffered.

"Zheng punish me, of course." She unconsciously slumps her shoulders, easing the pains of her back—both the ones present now and the intangible, remembered ones in her past--making me recall the battle scarred men I treated in the war who cried out that their amputated limbs were hurting. Some aches never leave.

"After he done, he made me offer. He said if I was good, he would never touch Lian, and even said I could also have one thing I ask for. To point, of course."

"Of course." Holmes narrows his steel eyes. "What did you ask for?"

"I asked for his promise that me and Lian would no be separated. He said to ask for different thing and I thought about lan-guage. I spoke Siamese, then, of course," she smiles a little. "And Chinese, but other women always whispered about 'civilized' life in Eng-land and A-merica, and I wish to know another lan-guage I could teach Lian, so we could speak together and no be understood. All Zheng's women were Chinese or Siamese and spoke either one or both. So I thought and finally asked to learn to talk English and read it. Zheng was surprised, but kept his word. Lian was no…touched…and I was given many A-merican 'dime novels.' It was my start to learning English, though I still do no talk so good."

"You speak quite well," I say, genuinely impressed at her multilingual abilities despite her having had no formal schooling.

"You no need to tell lies," she replies with a small smile that momentarily erases the serious sadness of her face. "It may be I made good deal, because later we were sold to _him_, A-merican."

"Yes, but… Did…Zheng…" Holmes uncharacteristically wavers and stops his question, which, if I know him, is about what exactly she sacrificed when she made the deal. Did she merely promise not to run away?

She looks at both of us, her amber eyes intense and as knowing as always, and then she looks away. "In time, yes. Then I fight. I yell. I run."

Holmes and I are silent at this revelation and this time when Samira reaches for my arm, I take her hand in mine with the earnest desire to allay her grief, hoping that I am not seeming forward. She squeezes my hand and I know it was the right thing to do. Poor girl, she is still so young to have all this pain.

"Oh, but I am telling too much of bad things." Her voice is soft, sinuous. "At first it was not so bad with Zheng, and it was always better there than with _him_, Craw-ford, for much reasons, but mostly because…"

It seems she cannot bear to say it, so Holmes finishes her statement for her, in a gentler than usual tone that does him credit. "Your sister was safe."

"Yes. Lian was safe. When I was twelve, it is when Zheng said I was old enough to not be girl. He called me to room and he…he made me woman. I-I was hurting and I did no move from floor for long time…" Again she closes her eyes tightly, gripping my hand, and she unconsciously puts her legs on the bed, curling them underneath her for comfort in much the same way she probably did then.

"After he was gone, I remember seeing shadows lengthen on floor and cover me like blanket. Then Zheng's wife—his real one—pulled me up, yelling, 'Why are you in here?' I did no speak, but she accused me of stealing, and Zheng came and said I must be thief, since he had no asked for me. He pretended all of his women were servants and his wife pretended to believe him. I was still young, still foolish, so I told her truth when she asked if Zheng was telling right story. I think she believed me, but she still called me liar and had me punished." Her tone is straightforward, her expression again revealing nothing. "I was _kȋan_... Ah, what is English word? Flogged."

She hears my quick intake of breath and by her taken aback look she seems to think that I do not believe her. I start to assure her this is not the case when she holds up her hand and turns around so that her back is to both of us, shrugs the robe a little off her shoulders, lifts her long hair, and reveals a large series of crisscrossed scars all over the top of her back.

It is obvious these wounds extend below the robe, and her new lashes are treated with plaster, but it's easy to tell the old from the new. She has so many scars, more than I've ever seen on one person on anyone other than a burn victim. Perhaps the worst of it is that I know, from personal experience, that the worst of the scar tissue and the harder injuries to mend are always the ones on the _inside_ rather than out.


	30. Chapter 30

**Author's Note: **Hey guys! I'm still at my residency for school, but tonight is our 'free night' the first night we don't have readings or such to attend, so I thought I would update.

Oh hey, a note for those of you who've been updating stories--I'm sorry but I haven't had the time to read the updates left or review anything or even look at any part of the site other than the login screen--even tonight I've got a lot of work to do and this is my break. Still, I will read the ffs after I'm home.

Well, here is my latest chapter. This is from Watson's point of view and to spice things up I've added in italicized parts that are Watson's memories/thoughts on the war. And yes, they are somehwat connected--parts of her story remind him of what he went through--so it isn't entirely random. And this is kinda a long chapter to make up for my not updating for awhile.

Warning-violence is told about in chapter and there is a bit of gore describing some deaths. nothing overly sexually explicit. I also have some Farsi (language of Afghanistan) in Watson's memories, just so you know he isn't remembering them speaking Thai or something. (which samira of course uses)

I'm tired so my Auth note won't be as perky as usual. lol. One request--please review this! I really really appreciate the thoughts and your guys' comments help me get the energy to write more even when I'm at school and am dead tired. so please r + r. thanks guys. (hugs) Ps. There's a poll on my profile.

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**Watson**

"You were so young," I gasp without thinking. She turns to face us again, still holding her hair to the side, twisting it.

"Not all are from then, Doctor." Her voice is gentle, as if to placate me for the pain she has suffered.

"You are a most remarkable young woman," Holmes says softly, which is extremely high praise from him. "Many others in your place would not have had the strength to-to go on."

Another hesitation from the never-tentative Holmes has me convinced that he is, in his own way, as concerned and sorry for her as I am.

Samira shakes her head. "It was no for me I was strong," she whispers softly, her unspoken words _it was for Lian_ thick in the air. She sighs as if coming to a conclusion of some kind. "In way, Zheng was right. Everything has cost…but you can no choose what you pay."

"I'm not certain everything has a cost, Samira," I reply, again making sure my tone is kind. "You cannot buy love, for instance." At my romantic statement, Holmes rolls his eyes at me out of sheer habit. I, as usual, ignore him.

"May be you can no buy it, but there is price even for love. Not only can any one you love be lost, but you pay with worry, with fear, with ache in heart, though you get love in return. Problem is knowing what cost is too high."

Very gently, I pat her arm with my free hand—she is still holding the other one—and ask, "Do you believe that the cost of love is too high?"

"Have you lost loved one?" Her question is direct, but coming from her, I am not offended.

"Yes. Many." At her searching glance, I decide to elaborate. "Most recently, I lost my wife…" Because she is looking at me with those entreating eyes for someone to understand her and because she herself said that Holmes was to me what Lian was for her, I continue. "And there was a time I thought that Holmes was dead."

She takes in a deep, broken, breath. "Then you know grief."

I nod, studiously avoiding Holmes' penetrating gaze.

"So I will answer. Once in while, I _wish_ I believe that love has too high of cost—maybe if I did I would no hurt like this. But…I do no believe it. If I had choice, I would choose to have Lian back no matter price and I would still have loved her even if I knew…knew what would happen."

I nod—this philosophy is somewhat similar to my own, and one of my reasons I readily forgave Holmes after Reichenbach—I, too, would choose to have him no matter the price. As she said, there is a feeling of 'Irrevocable heart.'

"I know how you feel, Samira," I say softly. Glancing at Holmes, I am surprised to find him looking out of his depths and uncomfortable, but also somehow reassured, and when our eyes meet briefly he looks away.

As soon as I focus my attention on Samira again, I can feel Holmes regarding me, but I continue to avoid his searching eyes and after a moment, he changes the subject—typical, when the topic of conversation has made him ill at ease. "Was Zheng always so cruel? Or was it Crawford that gave you the majority of your injuries?"

I shoot Holmes a look at his somewhat indelicate question, but I know that he is earnest in his quest for knowledge and no doubt has a motive behind what he asks.

She does not seem offended. Another woman might have thrown her hair back in front of the scars, told him he was an insensitive brute and burst into tears, denouncing him. But Samira merely reaches cautiously behind her, running her fingers gently over the soft, raised scars, tracing a path, searching. After a moment she throws her hair back and pulls the back of her robe up again.

She answers the question in her own, round about, almost evasive, way. "Wife was one to flog me, no Zheng. She did it all times—she _liked_ it. This was because," a red flush creeps up her cheeks. "Zheng said I was most pretty 'pet' of all of us and after I was twelve, I was made to, ah, take turns with other women. So wife hated me most and flogged me much—but not so deep or hard as _he_ later did."

"Beside, oftentimes older women are ones who give punish-ment. Men, men are buyers and sellers, and buyers often beat you, but women hurt you, too. They are ones you want to connect with; they are ones you are no scared of at first."

I try not to react at the way Samira, at once so perceptive and so innocent, refers to these delicate matters. She looks at me—I must look awful because she looks at me sympathetically and then glances at Holmes questioningly, for approval to continue. Knowing me and how I would react if she stopped for my sake, he inclines his head for her to continue, so she nods.

"In truth, I did no mind Zheng's wife hitting me—it meant she too tired to hit Lian much. You see, Lian was mistresses' maid and _actual_ servant, because of Zheng's promise, and his wife always was harsh on maids. But in working as maid," Samira adds quickly and perhaps defensively. "Lian did no have to ah, give Zheng services."

"So we made best of things until Zheng's wife—I only ever called her 'mistress'—went to see her sick mother for one month. At time, Zheng became lonely and picked me out of all women to act as 'pretend wife' until Mistress come back. In some ways, Ping Zheng was more pa-thet-ic than hate-a-ble. It was for long time whispered that he, ah, could no _perform_ unless woman very young and I found out for self it was true. Though I was young at time, oldest 'pet' he had was in twenties. I am being coarse?" She looks at us, honestly concerned she is being too indiscrete. I manage to shake my head in the negative and Holmes does the same.

"No, Samira," I reply. "_You_ are not the one who is coarse." The vulgar ones were the despicable men in her life—men that I desire to thrash soundly.

"During that month, I also found out another reason mistress hate us—other than obvious, of course. All through second week, Lian was sick and I stayed with her, told Zheng I would no leave her even if he beat me. He let me stay. Late one night I left room to get water for my sister. On my way, I saw Zheng outside his youngest daughter's room. He was crying silently," she traces her pointer finger down her cheek like the path of tears, "and clutching chest like he hurt. When he saw me, he lunge for me and threw his arms around my waist. 'You have saved me, you have saved my daughter,' he cried. Then he knocked me to floor and…" She paused. "Rav-ished me."

My mouth nearly drops open at that proclamation—evidentially she remembers those dime novels quite well!

No doubt they were her only escape…

Samira is again staring straight ahead of her, looking into an invisible mirror to her past. She says that she thought that maybe Zheng's wife hated them because they were what stopped his 'bad urges.' That night he told her he loved his girls very much, that he was sorry, so sorry. Quietly, she explains that she wasn't sure which girls he meant but that she had been glad that maybe her own 'guilt' helped keep someone else's innocence. Feeling the least bit useful was nice, though she would have rather had her mother again, her mother and Lian, of course, and maybe even Shing, because he was the only father she knew. But, Samira continues, she knew that love came with a price and that everyone's but Lian's was unstable—Shing had loved their mother and Lian for sure, if not her, and yet he sold that love for a price. Besides, she knew many bad stories of girls worse off than they were, and the fact they had each other was most definitely better than nothing. Her face is contemplative as she recounted the fact that Zheng was crying when he was—was 'hurting' her.

"Six months later he died of 'stomach problem.' I had just turned thirteen when he died. All servants say wife poisoned him, but it was no proved. Mistress sold all of us. She tried to find bad buyer for me…but Zheng had made her promise she would keep me and Lian together." Her orange-brown eyes come back to the present and meet mine. "It is why I do no hate him. So wife, she sold me and Lian to opium dealer—two for price of one."

Her eyes again reveal nothing, but her voice remains frank. "It was no good place…I was so scared for Lian! She was only nine and so far, I had kept her mostly safe, and no ruined—"

A pang strikes my heart as she says it so matter-of-factly; implying that she herself is 'ruined.' I can make certain she recovers from the physical pains, but the psychological… That will take time. The amazing part is that she does not seem to feel sorry for herself in the least, which is something that I am not sure I could say of myself in a similar situation.

"So it was lucky he wanted us for buyers and no for himself—I made sure men were so…" She blushes. "So deep into, ah, trying of product, they did no bother her and, for most part, did no bother me. Even so…" Her voice becomes hesitant. "Even so it was frightening place; world of vio-lence and hidden threats and open threats and rooms filled with horrible smoke… In truth, we were lucky we did no become, ah, de-pen-dent like many other girls. We tried to no breathe smoke and we were no with Master but few weeks—we never knew even his name. Then he was killed by upset buyer, and we were sold again by widow—opium dealer's wife—to…to slave trader."

The way she speaks it is evident there are many things she could elaborate on, but she does not.

"He was no nice, but he treated us well until ship—we were pigs fattened for slaughter and fed nicely un-till market." I wince at her choice of words, but she continues calmly. "He is one who say we 'fetch much money in A-merica.' Again we put in hidden cargo hold of boat with so many other girls, and this time I can remember…"

Her voice becomes hazy again, the quality I've noticed it gets when she is recalling her past out loud involuntarily, not really meaning to tell us her story, merely reminiscing.

"There were no windows. It was dark, and it was hot, so hot, though you could no see sun it felt like it was right over your head. There was no place to let out your water or anything so as people became sick, waste covered floor of deck, mixed with, ah, vom-it. Soon smell of, of rotten death was all you knew. It was hard, so hard to tell who alive and who not—if you found dead body you thumped on trap door and someone would haul it out after day or two. I learned to no be, ah, per-so-nal-ly involve with other passengers, because they die. They all die."

I visibly flinch, but she does not notice as she is enthralled in her memory, but I see Holmes notices my reaction. He shoots me a questioning look and I smile, albeit unconvincingly, to reassure him. Her words have recalled some of the conditions of the so-called makeshift hospitals I encountered in Afghanistan, which were basically sheds or outbuildings or even just a field where people had dragged the bodies of the dead and dying, stolen their belongings, and left them to die. As for the battlefields…

_The damned sun seems even hotter now that my helmet's been shot off—I shall have to remember to get another one soon, for here the sun will kill just as easy as the enemy we are fighting. The blood running down my brow—seems I've been nicked—isn't helping me assess the condition of the young soldier who has dropped to the ground next to me. I wipe the blood out of my eyes, not even wincing when a bullet kicks up the dirt near me—gunshots don't bother me at this point, unless I'm not expecting them, and I crouch next to the injured man. He's been hit in his upper thigh near the groin, and the shot's hit the common femoral artery by the fountain of dark blood staining my khaki uniform. _

_I open my bag and hurriedly tie a tourniquet and temporarily bind the wound. There aren't any orderlies or stretcher bearers nearby so I'll have to help him off the battle field. Foolish of me to have sent Murray out to look for other casualties, but the more men we can help the better. _

"'_M I dyin'?" The young man, who is actually probably a few years older than my self, asks._

"_No, lad, you'll be all right now I've got you." Not that I'd tell him if he _was_ dying, but as long as I can get him into surgery right away he should make it, if he doesn't die of sickness or infection, of course._

_He groans as I finish the last knot. "Will…will I b'able ter 'ave kids?"_

_For a moment I stare at him—it isn't too often I'm startled any more—before I smile. "Certainly, son, the bullet's only hit your leg."_

"_Than' yer. My wife Lizzy'd kill me if'n I came ba' wiffout bein' able ter fin'lly give 'er some kids."_

_The call of retreat sounds and I let out a curse—I know we won't be able to return to tend to the other wounded. I should have known the tide was turning against us, but I was focused on tending the wounded I saw._

"_I need to get you up now, lad," I tell the soldier softly, pulling him up and taking as much of his weight as I can stand._

"_I'm Teddy Wilkins," he groans, talking to distract himself from the pain. "Jes' a infan'ry man, no' a off'cer."_

"_Hold on, Teddy," I reply, as he sags further against me. Some of the men form a protective shield around me and the injured man. "I'm Assistant Surgeon John Watson."_

"_Yer…awful 'igh rankin'…ter be out 'ere wif us," he gasps._

_I decide not to be offended at the incredulity in his voice. "Where the devil else could I be, and still call myself a doctor?"_

_Even though he seems a nice young man, I can still feel myself automatically distancing from him—he could die, they all die… _

_He gives me a sickly grin. "Yer one o' us, tried an' true, sir."_

_Before I can reply, a haze of blood flies into my eyes and all of a sudden Teddy is dead weight. I wipe my face of the blood and brain matter—Teddy's dead, having taken a straight shot to the head. I stumble with his weight and ease him down. Even as some of the other men pull at me, I search inside his pockets—there, a letter, a letter with his Lizzy's address. I'd look for more personal effects for the widow, but the men pull me away and the Ghazi's are almost upon us. They all die. I might as well be a coroner._

_I stumble along with the men who pulled me from Teddy. The whole of the ground is covered with the dead and the screams of horses mix with the cries of men for my help and, as the Ghazi's advance, the cries of our men, for someone to kill them. Though I've long learned to take up my weapon with some of the other sharpshooters and to shoot the injured men before they are skinned alive, tortured to death, hacked to pieces with swords, have their eyes gouged out, or, in the odd chance that one might survive the Afghans who never take prisoners, die of thirst or of heat from the blasted sun. Even so, raising a gun to the wounded is still not what I'd call easy. It is just the opposite of the life-saving career I wanted… _

"I crawled over other people, put Lian in corner, which was least filthy, and pressed up next to her to save her from sickness. Even in corner, people were all around, you had no space to breathe, you did not know if person you touched was dead or alive unless it moaned or be-came...smelly."

_Bodies were all over the battlefield, enemy and comrade alike, but mostly comrades, all covered with blood and gore and sand, merciless sand, their skin taunt and lips parched, occasional voices murmuring, 'water, water' or '_ȃbe, ȃbe' _with desperation and the all too common groans and grunts and death rattles. With all the blood, with the sand blowing over the dead and severely injured alike, it was hard, in the beginning, for me to tell who was alive and who was dead, unless they were moving or shifting or obviously were decapitated or had their heads blown off or their entrails hanging out. After time, I learned instinctively how to single them out. It wasn't the eyes—one could be utterly surprised at how many living men stared forward glassily. So unless they'd been dead long enough to go filmy, it _wasn't_ the eyes. The dead had their own smell._

"We both lost much weight, and I was sick for time, as was Lian, but we made it to A-merica. Both of us and two other boat sur-vivors were sold by slaver to miner. He take us to camp, make us three older girls his, ah, mer-chant-dise and Lian, who I again say was seven instead of nine, became servant he treated like daughter. She only have to sit in his lap and—and touch him," her voice briefly gives way to despair before her placid demeanor takes over again.

"This was better than any other thing she could have been made to do. I was glad she no had to deal with mining men. Of course, some miners no so cruel and only want to look at me, Jiang, or Wan Zhen while we were, ah, not proper-ly dressed. These men pay for 'two bittee lookee.' That was better than 'flo bittee feelee' and awful 'six bittee doee.' It was normal if each of us had five buyers each day, other than Lian, of course. We did no earn money. We could no escape. Wan Zhen try to run and she had, had _nom_, ah," she gestures to her breasts, "her chests cut off for punishment. She died of blood loss. I was separated from Lian except at night and Sunday—miner say he no 'blas-phe-mer'—and I knew she would be killed if I try to escape. Beside, where we go?"

_The women haunted me, the refugees carrying children or lamed parents on their backs, their thin emaciated forms covered in cloth, their haunted, untrusting eyes that burned into one's soul. I helped them when I could, but all too often there was nothing I could do for them—they threw themselves on relatives' pyres or ended up being stoned for prostitution. _

_Only one teenage prostitute doggedly followed our regiment on broken, barefoot feet. I knew, from one of the translators, that her parents had been killed and she had no other relatives and no other place to go. Though the orders were not to bother with people like that, ostensibly because of the number of women who had been seen butchering wounded men after battles, I finally got Murray to help me smuggle her into the ambulance tent, as the field hospital tents were still called._

_I treated her wounds and provided her with some of my own socks and then Murray and I fashioned a pair of sandals for her out of a canvas bag and some sutures. I later found her waiting in my tent that night, to thank me in the only way she knew how, and I can still see the surprise in her pretty, dark face when I managed to convey—with gestures and a few words of Farsi—that it was unnecessary, that all I wished was for her to sleep in my bed that night—alone—and get some rest. She cried and kissed my hands. I slept in the hospital tent._

Samira's voice jolts me out of my reverie and I try to look unaffected. Holmes, naturally, is not fooled for a moment.

"After miner made enough money, he find wife and 'retire!' Jiang, Lian, and I were sold to _his _'madame.' She was pretty woman, had good way of getting good products like us cheap by providing her, ah, services to traders. So again we took boat ride—only Jiang died, from losing baby she had, and one other person died of star-vation—because Craw-ford want to ex-pand market, wanted to be lord in Eng-land. He have friend there who 'went halves' with him. Craw-ford provided girls, other provided money, and so that is how we came here. This is where I stop when telling it to Bao Yu."

She scoots closer to me on the bed, for the comfort of another person's warmth, no doubt, and I feel a deep, sympathetic kindred with the young woman. She has seen what I have seen, if not identically, more than she should have and enough so I empathize with her.

Samira seems to think Holmes will have specific questions for her, so she mimics his actions of earlier and clears her throat. I almost manage to smile at Holmes' look.

"Miss Samira, can you—are you able to tell us more about Crawford's… operations? Any specifics? As I said, the slightest detail may provide me with a clue to the identity of Crawford's partner."

She nods. "Here is how it is. _He _runs cribs, not brothels. Difference is brothels are nicer," she adds, graciously assuming we are not at all acquainted with either of them.

"Cribs are cheaper, cribs are for slaves. In _his_ houses, two girls are in each little room with tiny windows and narrow doors that lock from outside most of time. Or, if unlocked, girls are chained to wall. Always these cribs are near docks. Girls do no earn money, we are 'sing song girls' locked in rooms and half-dressed, waiting for man to peer in door and pick us. If we did not chant, 'two bittee lookee,' 'flo bittee feelee,' 'six bittee doee,' we beaten. We beaten lot anyway and not fed much so we are weak and will no escape. Also, if girl does not make so much money, she is beaten."

"At first, Lian and I were put together. I was to be merchandise, she was to be my 'a-ppren-tice' and learn from watching. I was seventeen, she thirteen. When men—buyers—look in door I avoid looking at their eyes so that they would no pick me—I always got in trouble for this. 'Madame' beat me much, es-pec-ia-lly since I was, in her words, 'prettiest girl who could make most money.' When man pick me, I made Lian close her eyes and I singed whole time man was there, even if he beat me, even when I fought him—I always fight—so Lian would know I was all right, so she no have to hear…other things. Mother used to sing."

Samira's mask is wavering again—her eyes seem haunted. "Lian should no have been in room, she should no have heard… In time, though she marked 'no for sale' yet, one man try and, ah, lay with Lian after he done with me. I almost killed him getting him away from her—he knocked her out, he hurt her! I wrap chain round neck and choke till he no fight—I did no want to kill him, just get him away. He did no die. Madame beat me, tell Craw-ford, who laughed and said he knew then that way to control me was to keep my sister instead of sell her, to keep her safe so long as I behave. It was then I learn from Madame that he only keep girls 'with weakness' he can exploit. Lian again was taken away from me and made maid at Craw-ford's house, but I was glad she did no have to…to do what I did, though I always fight!"

Her eyes flash when she says this. She pauses for a moment, composes herself, and then continues, saying that in general there were more than five buyers a day for each girl in the crib, it was more like ten or maybe even fifteen. On the weekend, she says, if she made a decent amount of money, she was allowed to go to Crawford's house and share a room with her sister. After four years, a drunken man kicked over a lantern in the crib and the building, being old and made of wood, caught fire quickly. The Madame ran outside and did not free any of the girls.

Samira, who had been napping, smelled smoke and then heard screaming, so she squeezed out of her wrist shackle—which, she says, was easy because she had been starved that week for being bad. Because she was chained, the door to her room was unlocked and so she was able to run to the other upstairs rooms and let out Bao Yu and ten other ladies. Samira clarifies that because the Madame had the doors locked from outside and also had men on ground watching the windows, most of the women on the second floor were not chained. The women downstairs, however, because it would be easier for them to escape, generally were kept chained. She tried to go downstairs and help the people she heard screaming, but every place on the steps there was "orange and red flickering like fall leaves."

Again her words are vivid, painting the picture quite clearly. I would be willing to bet that of all the girls, Samira looked the most composed. It is easy, now, to look at her face and see it in my mind's eye lit by the fire, her natural cleverness and determination showing as she quickly assessed the situation and the best course of action.

"So we go to room with biggest window and open it. All twelve of us jumped out. I hit ground hard, was un-aware for time, but I woke to Bao Yu screaming at me, shaking me, telling me to run. In fall, she hurt her leg and could no get far enough away from building. Bells started ringing in distance. I could hear voices screaming inside, screaming they were burning, they could no breathe, and I broke open first floor window but fire poured out and I can no get in. 'Help me!' the girls yelled in English and Chinese, '_Jìumìng ā_!' And 'Help!' they yell in English and Siamese, 'Chȗay lĕua!' Their voices sounded ragged, almost no human, they sounded like terror. I try again to get in but I can no, so I help Bao Yu away from building and find piece of wood she can use as crutch."

_The villagers that didn't help to slaughter us helped us to escape, after Maiwand. Many of us had fled into the villages, the cities. In and out of consciousness, my own severe pain and the desperate calls for help that I could not answer were all that resonated in my mind. Darkness. Agony in my shoulder, my leg, then a plea: Help, oh, God, help me! _

_Each word was like another bullet. Help—oh—God—help—me! _

_Darkness. Anguish, pain all around, and more word-bullets _Man ehtiaj be komak dȃram_—which meant 'I need help' in Farsi._

Man _(pain)_—ehtiaj _(heat)_—be _(fear)_—komak _(thirst)_—dȃram _(guilt)_!

_Help (misery)—oh (suffering)—God (shock)—help (blood-loss)—me (torture)! Pain. Black._

" 'Samira,' Bao Yu said. 'We must run now, we can be free. I know place to go, know man with place to be safe—'

'No,' I reply. 'I can no leave without Lian. I must go to _his _house and get her.'

Bao Yu said she could no wait for me and I tell her I no expect her to wait, that I wish her all best.

Then, she hugged me and say, 'Samira, you save my life, you are now my sister forever in heart. I hope you find Lian. I am going now, but I will no forget you.'

After that, Bao Yu hobbled away and I run to Craw-ford's house before fire-wagon arrived. I try to get inside _his_ house in secret but I am caught. For trying to run, my punishment was that Lian was sold to crib _he_ did business with. In end, that is why she die. She never had been…used ill before, she had not yet been…ruined. I never talked to her about how to survive, how to turn mind into bird and fly away, I never prepare her!"

"It was Crawford's fault—_not_ yours." I hold her gaze and she finally looks down at her lap.

"Fault does no matter, Lian is dead." She pauses. "I wish," she continues in a whisper so that both Holmes and I lean slightly forward to hear her. "I wish I stop her from seeing what I seen, I wish I was one to die…"

Instantly I think of Rudyard Kipling's poem in memory of Maiwand—_"An' I wish I was dead 'fore I done what I did, or seen what I seed that day!"_

"After I caught and Lian was sold, I was chained in small room in new Crib with Bao Yu. She was captured and beaten, but that was no what broke her—I do no know what Craw-ford threaten her with, but it was not beating that made her change her mind. He put her with me because he knew she no let me escape out of _glua--_fear. That is when Bao Yu had wrist shackled so tight. She get customer to give her laudanum for pain and one time when she a-sleep, I slip out and try to find Lian." Samira's voice, which had been assured and only occasionally breaking, suddenly becomes utterly devoid of emotion, although her eyes are overflowing with pain.

"I find crib where she is. No one stop me as I look for her, and when I get to room she was in… On floor, there was _sâak sòp_. Corpse. Of girl. She had been beaten to death, blood everywhere, but what stay with me, what make me have _făn ráai,_ what I see when I sleep is her face… she had none. Only pulp was left. Man had beaten her to death and smashed in head so it was only _man sà-mŏng,_ _lêuat_, _grà-dòok_ _chín-chín_—brains, blood, and bone frag-ments."

_A group of scouts came across the mangled body of a young woman, a girl, really. Apparently, some of the enemy soldiers had found she was following us and had bashed in her head with a large rock after stabbing her several times all over her battered body. Nothing was left of her face but gore and flies. Even so, Murray and I knew it was the teenage girl we had helped, the one who had slept on my cot, instinctively and because of the makeshift sandals found on her feet. _

I blink several times to get the image out of my head—why start these painful rememberings now? Because Samira's sights remind me of my own? Or because her pain is so similar?

Samira pulls her hair to the side and nervously plaits it, obviously trying to concentrate on anything other than what she is saying.

"I was shocked, but I can no believe it is Lian. I run up and down crib, _gaan fài hăa_, searching, looking in each room, but my _kà-nìt-tăa_, little sister, is no where I can find. I go back to where body is, to see clue, and I notice something. Around wrist of—of…of _sâak sòp_, is rib-bon. Rib-bon I give Lian long time before, after Zheng let me pick present. I look at rib-bon, then at body, which is plump, and short, and I hear Craw-ford behind me. _He_ say Lian poke out buyer's eye—who was po-lice—and man beat her to death w-w-with _máai yaao._ Cud-gel." No wonder she didn't trust the Yarders!

"_He_ laughed, he, he kick Li—body. I attack _him_, make him bleed, and he move me back with Bao Yu, who tell on me when I try and slip out of shackle. At first, I do no eat, but Bao Yu then made me eat and drink some, and when she got sick and died, I stop eating. _He_ take me to his home. At _his_ house, I kept chained in room by self, was, was used by Amos and him when they like, how they like. Often I no fed but when he know I not eating, he make me tied to chair—the one in room, Doctor," she says to me. "And they tie me and hold neck and head back and put long tube down my throat, making me gag, and pour gruel in it. It hurt and it gross, but I do no care. Lian is dead. I hear Amos talk about Craw-ford's partner's messenger coming and going sometimes, and I run away last week to Miss Fairchild, who Lian had heard of, and she killed while I stay with her. That is all. Lian is dead. She—she's d-dead."

Samira has tears in the corner of her slanted eyes and I reach up, careful not to hurt my ribs, to gently wipe one away. The girl needs comforting, improper or not, and I know from Holmes' slightly alarmed look at her tears, not to mention his habitual avoidance of emotional scenes, that he will not be the one to do it. Mrs. Hudson, however, would be a great help now, certainly.

To my surprise, Samira bends down and gently, careful of my ribs and her side, puts her head on my shoulder, and cries. It is, I believe, the first time in a long while that she has allowed herself to fully cry, to _sob_, since her torrent of emotions are flowing out as though they've finally rushed over a barrier she had. Pulling myself up carefully on the pillows, so I am in more of a sitting position, I put my arm around her, wary of her back injuries, and she nuzzles her face into my neck, her tears hot on my skin.

Holmes is looking at me with unhidden relief that I am the one comforting the girl. This, I think, will be good for her, to let some of it out. Heaven knows I could have used the same treatment myself, after the war, after the Falls, and after Mary. Not that I would have accepted it, but still.

When you do not let out your grief, I know for a fact, it begins to eat away at your insides, gnawing at your health and your soul like a ravaging disease.

"You're all right," I say softly, looking at Holmes while still holding her, looking at my best friend pointedly in the hopes he will understand that I'd like him to hand me his handkerchief for her. "It wasn't your fault." She lets out another choked sob that sounds almost embarrassed. "It's good to let it out, to have a long cry." I hear her choke out something that sounds like her sister's name.

"I lose her, I lose all," Samira whimpers beneath her sob. "All …"

"Shh, it's all right, Samira, I'm here," I soothe, ignoring the pain in my head and my ribs as she shudders heavily. She needs to get it out and I am glad I can support her. If I could I would gladly take away her pain, but I know too well that only she herself can deal with it. Still, someone else, someone that understands, is a help, though I can only hope that expunging her story by telling it will help her to heal instead of hurting her some more.

I look at Holmes and he is giving me an odd look, but when I try and decipher it, he shakes his head and finally hands me the handkerchief.

"I'm going to step out for a minute," Holmes mouths at me. I nod.

Typical of him to leave me alone with the crying woman. After a few moments, I smell tobacco smoke. Good. Perhaps Holmes has detected something useful in Samira's story, something that can lead us back to Craw-ford's partner. I need to recover quickly so that I will be a help and not a hindrance to Holmes in the event of trouble. And, I have a feeling; we shall soon see plenty of it.

Ten days. I have ten days to get well, to make certain Holmes takes an occasional break from his plotting and fretting, to help Samira recover, to make certain I can protect those I care about.


	31. Chapter 31

**Author's Note: **Aha, a short break before I head off for a reading, so I thought I would go ahead and post the conclusion of this story. Yes I said conclusion!

Until part two of course. ;)

It ends with a cliffhanger, but this story was getting rather long so I thought I'd do the second half in a different story so this isn't too long. Thanks for reading this you guys, I really appreciate it.

BTW, I hate to bribe you, (wink) but the more reviews I read when I get back home from school the faster I'll recover from the trip and update... ;)

As always, thanks a ton for your support and reading this.

Oh, a question. Assuming Samira survives, would you guys like to see more of her?

Thanks all! (falls over in tiredness) Must...get..energy...for...school... xD Remember to review... (wink wink nudge nudge) lol

Oh, PS, I have a NEW poll up on my profile. Different from the last one.

* * *

**Holmes**

Ten days. 240 hours. 14,400 minutes. 864,000 seconds. Certainly not a sufficient amount of time for Watson to become fully recovered. Better, yes; up and around for certain; but ready for a direct assault? No. No matter what _he_ may claim.

I take a long drag on my pipe and continue pacing the length of the sitting room. I cannot, as I often do, count on my Boswell's back up this time—I shall have to protect him myself.

And there is also Miss Samira to think of; she is a problem. I wish I could send her and Mrs. Hudson somewhere out of the way, but I think it best for me to keep her and Watson together so that I may watch out for both of them. As for Mrs. Hudson, she very probably will not leave without Samira, either, so I shall have an injured doctor—who is always a wretched invalid—a stubborn housekeeper, and a half-starved, mistreated young woman to take into account. And Watson expects me to sleep tonight!

As if I could.

I pause for a moment and listen at my bedroom's door—I hear the faint murmuring of talking. Good. If anyone can comfort Miss Samira, he shall, and I daresay she will be more comfortable with me out of the room. It seems the only man she trusts is Dr. Watson—she's an intelligent woman; he is the only man I completely trust as well! Not counting Mycroft; naturally I trust my older brother. For the most part_._

Watson's voice, though I cannot make out the words, sounds weaker than before—he's tiring himself out. Perhaps he will take the morphine soon… He attempted to hide his physical and emotional pain while Miss Samira recounted her life, but I can nearly always tell when he is suffering. Unless, of course, I am too involved in a case or do not even realize he is missing until I am handed his bloody watch! I _need_ to be more careful in the future.

I believe I shall stay in the sitting room tonight if he shoos me out of my bedroom—it is not hard to deduce that Samira's heart-wrenching, graphic story has stirred some of Watson's own demons and that he will probably be plagued with nightmares. Another reason I shan't sleep tonight; I have a feeling I would merely dream about Watson's sufferings…

Dash it all, I'm not concentrating on the problem before me! Most probably this is because I did not truly come out here to think so much as I wished to escape Miss Samira's uncomfortable grief and the pain I myself felt while watching the sorrow flash across Watson's face. It would be much better for the world if the past did not become an almost physical entity and haunt us…

Fanciful thoughts. If I continue in this inept, emotional matter I won't be any use when Crawford's partner returns.

I wish Watson could remember precisely why he had been down by the docks and whether or not there was a message, but I am grateful that his amnesia seems to be limited to that—I would much rather have him whole and well than recall a clue, no matter its importance.

I wish that Miss Samira's narrative would have done more than evoke my almost unheard of sympathy—she gave very few clues. Still, her recounting of the tale was not entirely a waste and I have several suspects in mind. Tomorrow, I think, if Watson is well enough, I shall leave to question that fishwife again…

She knew of Crawford and may very well be able to tell me who he works with. In the meantime, I shall peruse my lists and books of criminals that work down in the dock area and attempt to narrow down the possibilities.

I hear Watson cough harshly in the next room and I furrow my brows. I shall look through my records later—now I'll wait for Miss Samira to leave and plot out a course of action in the meantime. After she's left—the good doctor is perhaps the only person who could comfort the poor girl—Watson will need my undivided attention if he is to regain his strength.

Ten days. We have only ten days.

* * *

**Samira**

You cannot remember crying like this since the night of Lian's death. It is as if your tears, after such a deep, terrible grief, dried up within you until now.

_Lian, oh, Lian, I so sorry… _

You sob—face red, blowing your nose, shoulders shaking—for your little sister… And you see her, you can still see her so clearly it as if only a window separates you from where she is…

You see her deep brown , kind eyes, and the way her crooked nose would crinkle up when she smiled; her round face shape, her full lips, the way she gnawed on the lower one when she thought; the way her fawn colored skin would turn white whenever a man came into the room to buy you; her delight in dancing, the easy grace that was unusual for her plump form; her once easy laugh that became rare, so rare you worked and worked to coax it out, always becoming delighted when you succeeded in enticing that deep, throaty, loud burst of joy from her; young, tiny Lian at the side of Mother's sick bed crying for her to get up; the gentle way she would tend to your hurts and hold on to you, pressing her body into yours; the innocent, lilting way her voice would turn up when she asked a question. _Samira? Why Ba-Ba sell us?...What job you do?...You all right?...Why you no tell me things? Do you think I do no notice?...Will we be together always?;_ the body on the floor, unrecognizable except for a ribbon…

You gasp at the image and tense, relaxing only when the doctor holds you closer. He is a good man—Lian would love him.

Perhaps it is his presence, his gentle soul that has unleashed your tears. You cry until you think you must be empty. You cry for Lian, for Dr. Wat-son, for your mother, for Bao Yu, for Miss Fairchild, for your failure, and for the kindness you have recently been shown.

"Let it out, Samira, there is no shame in crying," Dr. Wat-son is murmuring. "You're all right now. You're not alone."

He continues holding you until, worried that you are hurting his ribs; you pull away, wiping your eyes and blowing your nose with the handkerchief.

"I am sorry," you whisper, eyes red.

"There is no need to apologize," he says softly. "Feel a little better now?"

You nod. "Thank you."

He nods, still looking at you with concerned, serious eyes.

"Doctor?"

"Yes?"

"Does Mr. Holmes have gun?"

He looks a little taken aback by your sudden deviation from the topic, but he nods. "Yes and so do I."

"Good. I…I could no live if I cause you, Mr. Holmes, or Mrs. Hud-son hurt."

"Samira," he says softly. "You must stop blaming yourself." Dr. Wat-son's words are fainter than before. He has exhausted himself with the effort it took to stay awake, let alone comfort you and maintain conversation so he leans further back against the pillows.

"I just worry that his partner will come…"

"We'll be here with you. Every thing will be all right, in the end." He presses your hand, which is still holding his. "And if that man tries to come near you," he adds darkly. "I'll hurt him."

You smile a little at the sincerity and conviction in his voice. He _is_ like Lian—a gentle spirit but a tiger if roused!

He stifles a yawn and you bend down to gently hug him. "I tired, too. We should rest."

"If you ever need to talk again, Samira," he says softly. "I'll be here." He smiles a little ruefully at the last remark because he is bed ridden.

You nod appreciatively. "Same for you."

You walk out of the bedroom, turning to see him already closing his eyes.

For ten days, you could have a home here with Dr. Wat-son, Mrs. Hud-son, and Mr. Holmes. When you look at the doctor or Mrs. Hud-son, or the way Mr. Holmes' heart shows when he looks at his friend, you think, if only for a moment, maybe things could be all right...

You must make certain they are not hurt—you cannot fail them like you failed your sister. _Lian, help me do right for once, help me no make mistake._

There is ten days left. A little less than a week for you to decide what to do, for Mr. Holmes to investigate, for Dr. Wat-son to get well.

Ten days of comfort before the next trial begins.


End file.
